If you want to avoid the reverse snob take warning it won’t be easy. Look carefully on the corner you turn into the trendy street you walk, I assure there is an army of self superior snobs marching behind you. They stalk trends and prey on people like you and I when they see us hovering over a range of identities and landing firmly on none. Face value is the mantra repeated by the snob as they give us a derisive once over. It pleases me they will never figure me out; I wear my identity like my underwear, and who shows their pants to strangers?
I have been waiting to be tattooed for years, finally the day is here. I swallow a bubble of apprehension and reassure myself with a silent commentary in my head. This tattoo well it means something to you, you designed it yourself, its a classic design
The tattooist that greets me is an intimidating character. Though she is female I sense we won’t be bonding over our shared genitalia. I itch my bare arm self consciously (shit why didn’t I draw a sleeve on). “Hi erm yes I would like a tattoo please”. Rather than embracing me effusively and welcoming me to the club she admits me with gritted teeth of tolerance. So what is you want she drawls? As a first timer I know she doesn’t expect much of me. I watch her stub out her cigarette crushing it into the filled ash tray; She won’t grind me down. To her dismay, I pull out of my bag several pages of hand drawn sketches and printed images and I launch into my monologue “what I want is this....... “
The tattoo I get is a lazy interpretation of my material that now lies discarded on the floor ruined by the dirty imprint of a Doc Marten boot. The pain is over in just over an hour of my two hour slot I should be happy; I want to cry. I asked for three peacock feathers why have I only got one and why has she charged me less than we agreed. My worst fear are confirmed, I’ve met another reverse snob. There’s an honesty about the cut price that insulting; I know the tattoo isn’t worth anymore. She takes my money without thanks. The reverse snob prefers to trade in reputations and the assumption she makes about me the ‘tattoo novice’ is I’m a mug. My behaviour is sadly prophetic. “So do you like it? She asks accusingly, “yeh yeh its great” I murmur feebly. Bitch.
Two years on .I step inside the tattoo shop, I’m getting another one. I have chosen a vintage design that’s imposing in its size and greatness. It’s beautiful. Bolt blue snakes coil themselves round my thigh which is adorned with bunches of vivid orange blossoms. I look up from my tattoo the studio is peaceful except for the whirring of needles as they break skin. If the reverse snob is in the building they haven’t chosen to reveal themselves.
Afterwards I limp to the supermarket, inside I fight a girl with hostile glances for the last packet of crumpets. She’s doesn’t look ready to let me have them. For a moment I am tempted to raise my skirt so she see can see my imposing piece of ink. Don’t you know who I am?
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