Tattoo Parlor Triplets

The three of us sat there, eagerly squished together on a tattered black leather loveseat. A buzz of anticipation floated over our heads like the muted drone of tattoo guns in the background.

I looked down at my arms splayed out in front of me. Left, then right. Left again. Wondering which to mark.

We decided on an orange blossom, each of us a varied byproduct of Florida. Not all born there, but mostly all raised. It wasn’t generally something we boasted about, given the current and rather ongoing state of things, but in this case, it was deemed a worthy connection.

So much so to last forever on our bodies.

We’d grown up in the same areas, attended the same schools, and despite our rival colleges, later became sisters-in-law. Their brother, now my husband.

Though it seemed like a slow day in the shop, we were lucky to get a slot with Juls B, who’d agreed to squeeze us in on a referral.

In the Shoreditch neighborhood of East London, Seven Doors Tattoo appears small from the outside but is immense with talent inside. Situated on narrow, one-way Fashion Street, it sits wall-to-wall with other brick-and-mortar businesses. It draws you in through a single glass door, its interior decorated with original artwork and scattered live greenery.

A warm greeting welcomes us, followed by light paperwork that we gladly sign. We exchange pleasantries and recommendations for pizzerias and local bagel shops from New York City and Portland, where we’re visiting from.

Juls appears from the back soon after, happy to confirm our concepts, and graciously sketches variations of orange blossoms. We decide on a delicate bloom with three leaves of greenery, all fine-line, and each slightly altered to suit the desired placement on our arms.  

The entire appointment flies by. I’m second, lying face down with my right arm stretched flat on the tattoo bed, the back of my forearm exposed for the best application.

When she’s done, I love it. We all do.

A beautifully petite orange blossom adorns my arm, and theirs, a rose sans thorn from our family trip to the UK and a keepsake to always remind us: you can take the girl out of Florida.