The other day was the first time I ever felt like my tattoos were wearing me.
It’s not a secret that I love fashion and everything to do with it. In order to get a few summer staples in my wardrobe, I was out shopping for the Perfect Summer Maxi Dress. As elusive as they may be, they DO exist and occasionally they do so in my price range. I found a few I liked, a striped one, a beige colored lace one, and one with a colorful ethnic print on it that I absolutely adored. Yes, it matched everything I imagined and wished for ever since I pinned one similer to my pinterest.
I wanted it. I had to have it. So I raced off to the dressing room.
I threw open the door, and stripped down, pulling it over my head as I faced away from the mirror.
As I turned around and brought my eyes upwards, I looked in horror. No, it was all wrong. It was terrible in fact. It wasn’t the cut, nor the pattern… it was me…
My tattoos were clashing with the dress pattern. There was so much going on in the dress and now that I have my chest piece, my half sleeve, and work on my shoulder, I had a lot going on too. It was like when those crazy interior designers insist that the striped couch totally works with your paisly wallpaper, even though only an equally crazy fashionably client would agree.
So I put the dress back and ended up buying the lace maxi dress instead. It let my tattoos become the focal point. At the check out line the cashier commented on how pretty and feminine the dress was. She congratulated me on a great find. “Thanks, I do love feminine dresses,” I said, but in the back of my mind I was still dreaming of that patterned dress. The one I would never buy or be able to wear.