Angel of the Laser Tattoo Removal

It comes as a surprise to a strange amount of people that I have a fair few tattoos covering my arms, wrists, hands and thighs. I don't have a sleeve, by any means, but I suppose I must not present as the type of person who pays people to stab ink into their skin. Sometimes, usually in the 2 weeks of summer that Melbourne gets a year when I don a t-shirt, it surprises me as well. I can't stand people who define their personalities around things like tattoos, so if anything, I'm grateful not to be affiliated with them.

That being said, I made some... unique tattoo choices in my early 20's, that I'm now reaping the consequences of. Trying to remove them.

In an effort to reduce regret, I have a rule for myself when I get an idea for a tattoo. I have to actively want the tattoo for at least a year before I'll let myself book any artist. Not forget about it for a few months, then come back to the idea. It must be a consistent, unwavering desire for a minimum of 12 calendar months, something that bubbles on the back-burner of my mind. Somehow, this still does not mean I make good choices.

The tattoo I'm in the middle of removing is actually one of my most recent. I saved up a few ideas over a few years, while I also saved up the necessary funds and did a good amount of research into an artist. I got 3 tattoos at once, and was in the studio all day with the really lovely (and slightly emo-bogan, such an interesting subcultural mix) tattoo artist. The tattoo in question is entirely of my own design, to the point that when he tried to have some artistic freedom with it, I completely shut him down and told him to do it precisely the way I had drawn. I'd had some terrible experiences with male tattoo artists over the years and was determined (though scared) to make sure I actually got what I wanted this time, instead of being intimidated into submitting to whatever the fuck they decided I was getting. He took it well, and did what he was asked, and I don't blame this lovely dude at all for my absolutely stupid, shocking and embarrassing tattoo. It's well done, it's artistic, it's not his fault, but my God I've grown to hate it.

It's based on a poem, Angel of The Get Through, by Andrea Gibson. A enduring favourite of mine. A tribute to my nearest and dearest. Something I listened to and read many, many times while living overseas, isolated from everyone, tears in my eyes. The sentiment behind the tattoo is as sound as the skill put into it. It's my design that is the problem.

Here it is, dark and on death row right before the first laser tattoo removal session.

Fuck knows why I chose any of it. Why is it a moth? Why has she got a skull instead of a head? Where are her legs? Where are her genitals? Her nipples? Her hands? What the fuck is it, and why?

The night-scape of her wings makes sense; my best friend and I have a cute lil tradition of calling each other our "Moon"s (hence the moon tattoo right next door!). It's probably the only part I stand by.

My growing detest for my arm was rapid. I got the tattoo a couple of months into Lewis and I's relationship, when I was 25. By the time I was 29 and we were engaged, I didn't want it anywhere near our wedding day. I used to resent the way people would tell me I'd regret my tattoos on my wedding day, and ask what they'd look like in a wedding dress (in a way that clearly answered itself with: "fucking terrible"). I didn't and don't mind any of my other tattoos showing as I walked down the aisle, but I'd already been subconsciously- then very consciously- hiding this one for years. Which is particularly hard because, of course, it's by far my most visible tattoo, sitting below most sleeve lines. For fucks sake! When I realised that the only reason I was contemplating sleeves on my wedding dress was to hide this goddamn tattoo, I decided I should probably do something about it more permanently. Being a High School teacher added a new salience to it; there's nothing quite like the honesty of a 15 year old to help you make decisions about your body.

I didn't end up getting it removed and covered in time for our wedding, which is fine because, to my genuine surprise, I didn't think about it at all on the day, and laser is something that if done right, takes time. As it turns out, there has been a whole year between laser sessions (almost exactly, which is spooky? The first was on 1/12/21 and the second on 29/11/22). The tattoo has had a year to heal, fade and be ready for another assault. I'm hoping that this will be the last one needed before I can cover it up, because, yes, I am hoping to cover it up. I'm in the process at the moment of trying to convince myself that I can be trusted choosing another tattoo for myself, in a very visible area. I'm going for something a little less unique, with a little more mass (and personal) appeal. Australian florals.

So. If you've every wondered what a fucked-up moth zombie woman looks like 3 days after being subjected to precise and deliberate second degree burns for the second time, the answer is: angry.

There is something about the skull being the area to most dramatically blow-out first that lends itself to the feeling of slowly killing some sort of monster. It'd be easy to spin this into a metaphor: The Monster of Youth. The Monster of Bad Choices. The Monster of Regret. But I don't really feel like she's a monster. I feel like she's a lesson in the impermanence of all things: yes, youth, but also the versions of ourselves that were once so certain about so much.