My first tattoo

Damn few human beings are blessed with a body as perfect as mine. So, I’m very choosy about how I decorate it.

That’s why, when I decided to get the first ink on my septuagenarian hide, I asked my granddaughter, Maya, to do the honors. Now I can go surfing at Seminoe and make all the other cowboys green with envy. This column is about my first tattoo.

Let me tell you about Maya. She is the first gal born into the Miller family in 91 years. My clan is very prone to throwing horse colts. Naturally, we had no idea how to raise a girl, so in Maya’s infancy, we stocked up on pink duds and selected a few convents, charm schools and ballet programs to help her along the path to womanhood.

Instead, Maya chose to play ice hockey because she considered bull riding and MMA too lame. She’s retired from hockey now, after winning a roomful of awards and trophies, and she just embarked upon her lifelong ambition to become a tattoo artist.

For the past couple of years, Maya has used her older bro, Landon, to practice her craft. My grandson is pretty well tatted up and is proud to show off his little sister’s work. So Maya turned pro.

I made an appointment with her at Beautiful Addiction (I love that name!), her tattoo shop, and began my own journey to an inked life. When I parked in front of Maya’s shop, I expected to see basket case hardtail Harley choppers leaking oil on the pavement, but Beautiful Addiction is in the Frontier Mall and they discourage that sort of behavior.

I walked through the door prepared to hear Motörhead or Metallica blaring from speakers, and see a cloud of cigar smoke. But the shop looked more like an upscale spa or salon than a poolroom … neat as a pin with a soothing vibe. The surfaces were shiny, and the walls covered with photos of some really wild body art.

I wanted a Wyoming motif for my first tattoo, and Maya got down to business inking a familiar cowboy trope on my left pectoral. It’s Steamboat with Clayton Danks aboard, just like our license plates. Before you even start with that “who is that cowboy?” debate, it’s my chest and my tattoo, so I get to name the cowboy! Danks it is.

I had steeled myself to endure some sort of enhanced-interrogation agony that would make me spill all my secrets, but the sensation was more irritation than pain. Maya is smoooooth at her work, and constantly checked my vital signs to make sure I stayed on this side of the daisies. A mild sunburn is how I’d describe what I felt throughout the process.

The only other body mod I have is a 25-year-old brand on my right pec. It’s a big cursive letter “L” that one of my ex-wives applied. It was supposed to say “If found, please return to Lorraine, 537 Naples St., Corpus Christi, TX,” but I didn’t get past the “L” before I tapped out.

That brand hurt like hell when she sizzled it on. I felt like I’d been shot by a bazooka and it smelled like grilled stinkbugs. Probably my karmic comeuppance for the tens of thousands of calves I’ve put through the same torture. Pain-wise, a tattoo pales by comparison.

When she finished up, Maya slathered some special tattoo after-care ointment on Steamboat and Clayton, covered ‘em in Saran wrap and shooed me out the door. Before I left, I gave my granddaughter a big hug and didn’t feel a smidgen of pain.

I’m including photographic proof so y’all don’t conclude that this is just another campfire yarn.

I’m glad it didn’t hurt; I must be getting sort of wimpy in my golden years. And if we meet on the street, and I suddenly rip open my shirt, please don’t take it the wrong way. It’s simply that I’m awfully proud of my new tattoo!