Sixty Dollar Tattoo

Summary

A woman reflects on her transformation from a life of hardship and self-doubt to one where she values self-care and authenticity, despite the transactional nature of the world around her.

Abstract

The narrative revolves around a woman who acknowledges her high-maintenance nature as a neutral trait, emphasizing her need for sunlight as a metaphor for her approach to life. She recounts a past marked by perceived ugliness, malnutrition, and an unhappy marriage, which led to a significant physical and emotional transformation. Now, she is cautious of the superficial attention she receives, recognizing the insincerity in offers of cheap beauty products and tattoos. Her journey towards self-acceptance is tempered by a lingering bitterness and distrust of kind words, which she interprets as potential mockery due to a lifetime of internalized inferiority. The woman prioritizes quality over convenience, especially concerning her tattoos, and is wary of the transactional nature of relationships, understanding that people's intentions are often self-serving.

Opinions

The narrator views her need for self-care as a neutral fact of her existence, not a point of contention or a luxury.
She is skeptical of societal beauty standards and the body positivity movement, seeing them as irrelevant to her personal experiences of hardship.
The narrator is aware of the superficiality in her interactions, particularly noting how people who once ridiculed her now try to sell her things.
She harbors a deep-seated anger from past mistreatment and struggles to accept genuine compliments due to internalized negative self-perception.
The narrator values the quality and integrity of her tattoos, preferring to remain unfinished rather than settle for less than she deserves.
She recognizes the transactional nature of modern relationships and is cautious not to confuse attention with genuine love or care.

Sixty Dollar Tattoo

I’m high maintenance. That’s neither good nor bad: it just…is. Some like it hot, some like it cold, but for me, it’s not a matter of liking anything. I need the sun: so when it comes out, so do I.

I used to be ugly.

Miss me with the body positivity. Miss me with the “women don’t need to be beautiful.” Malnutrition and a bad marriage took my crown away. My thick, curly hair used to brush my waist, but when I ran from my husband, I ran away with a brush cut. My already petite self left twenty pounds lighter than the featherweight champion used to be.

I wanted love like a baby bird wants its mother. In some ways, I still do. I know people used to laugh at me when I came through. Now they want to sell me bootleg lotion and cigarettes and sixty dollar tattoos.

I just wanna sit outside and mind mine. The bitterness of my old heart still lives in my healed body. I feel the anger simmering inside of me. A lifetime of being taught to internalize my own inferiority makes it hard to see kind words as anything but mockery. I know I would be upset if I heard my words escaping the lips of just about anybody. But this is different. Because it’s me.

I don’t like to lie, but I’d tell you I had a man even if I didn’t. I’m too old to be running around conflating attention with love. You don’t believe any of the things you’re saying to me. I hear you yelling after me as you watch me leave.

I stopped working on my sleeve for a minute because I don’t like my ink cheap. I’ll stay unfinished before I let myself get tatted up in a place that isn’t clean. Right now, everything feels transactional. Nobody’s out here selling bootleg Aveeno because they care about me.