A couple of years ago, a manfriend of mine that is covered -- like knuckles, palms, neck, you name it -- in tattoos convinced me not to follow in his footsteps and get a gun inked on my hip as an homage to my namesake: Annie Oakley.
“Hot chicks with tattoos are a dime a dozen. It’s hard to come across a pristine bod nowadays.”
Although I disagree, the sentiment was really sweet. Mostly because I liked being indirectly referred to as “pristine.” (He was talking about me, right? RIGHT?) I guess he missed the faded green horseshoe on my vagina whenever we boned.
When I was 16, I had one of these shitty fake IDs that this mysterious private school kid made for all of the other high schoolers in the city. He had a monopoly; one of those legendary fake ID artists that people whisper about over their cafeteria food, like “He stole a machine from the DMV.” I heard he’s totally straight edge now and is really into juicing.
Anyway, I took said ID to a shop that this tatt-ed older chick I worked with frequented. (Just having visible ink meant that you were an expert in the field. I figured you probably ran into Kat Von D on the regular.) The guy working the counter made a photocopy of my “license” and asked if I drove all the way in from Louisiana to get my tattoo.
“No, I’m a student at SMU.”
“Oh yah? What year?”
“Aren’t freshmen like… 18 or 19?”
“I took a year off.”
He asked what I wanted, a question I had prepared for on the drive over: a horseshoe.
“Green. Do you have, like, a turquoise-y green?”
I wanted it to be classy, something simple. No shading, outlines, etc. Prison, stick-and-poke style.
Half an hour later I had a lucky horseshoe, doubly lucky because it was green. Scared I’d be in trouble with my parents, I got it super low on my hip so that even in my sluttiest bikini it’d be hidden. Genius! (The practice of simply not wearing slutty swimwear in front of parents comes with age, apparently.)
Sometime in the past year or so I came across an ad, or a blog post, or a paid blog post or an E! News segment with Giuliana Rancic about Make Up Forever concealer. I used to really struggle with bad skin, and awarded myself Jedi Master status in the concealer game. So when whoever-it-was claimed that this stuff was even strong enough to cover tattoos, I raised an eyebrow and let out an audible, “HA!” Then tilted my chin downward and snarled, “We’ll see about that."
Fresh tube of concealer in hand, I propped my legs on my vanity and dabbed. The consistency is kind of like a smooth acrylic paint, not oily, but thick and creamy. As you apply, you notice it becomes matte and nicely matches your skin’s texture. The first layer created the illusion that my tattoo had faded, like I was in the process of getting it laser-ed off. After letting the first coat dry, I added another. Still visible, I went for one more. By the fourth, set with a light dusting of translucent powder, my little green horseshoe was virtually gone.
You might be all, “Whoa, Annie. FOUR LAYERS? Anything can be covered by four layers of anything else -- NEEEXT.” But hear me out.
Like I said, this stuff isn’t oily and it really matches skins’ texture. It absolutely does not smudge on body skin. (Facial skin produces way more oil, so there is smudge potential there. But compared to other concealers, I think this takes the cake for face coverage as well. Also, was Drake really worth it?) Plus, layering light coats of concealer rather than applying one thick coat looks more natural because the edges are easier to blend into surrounding skin. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
So, I’m older now, and don’t really need to hide things from my parents. Especially now that I write about boning people and my vagina tattoo on XO Jane. (They’re not your kooky anything-goes ‘rents, either. I am a cloud of disappointment that constantly rains cold, wet shame upon my family.) What I’m trying to say is that she saw my tattoo in the fitting room at Neiman’s, so I don’t need to layer “Extreme” concealer on my tender areas anymore.
Now I’m all, “EMBRACE IT!” So, here’s a DIY Vajazzle:
You’ll need rhinestones and stuff like that from a craft store. As you’re standing there, choosing between white pearl cabochons and mint green ones, smile shyly to the lady next to you in the scrapbook isle and ask, “Oh, are you decorating your vagina, too?” Its fun! You’ll probably make a friend. She’ll probably scrapbook about it.
You’ll also need eyelash glue. The concept isn’t too hard to grasp, just glue that shit down.
So, what irreversible things did your high school self do to your body that you’re like, “meh” about now? Forked tongue, anyone? Better yet, how do you bring shame upon your family? Let’s get empathetiggy with it in the comments.