I started working in tattoo shops when I was 17 years old. Every Sunday afternoon I’d catch the train from the far west end suburbs of Toronto, to the far east end of the city to work the counter at the at a shop called Tat-A-Rama. My job (which I did poorly) was fetching coffee, changing c.d’s, mopping the floor, and scrubbing tubes. The pay was fair, the hours were okay and I was treated pretty well for a lazy, good-for-nothing, punk teenager. Actually, I should add that I was an AMBITIOUS, lazy, good-for-nothing, punk teenager; Withing my first month of working at the front desk I ran out and bought a Spauling and Rogers flyweight tattoo machine. This news was not met with the enthusiasm I was hoping for back at the shop. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I used the machine they would fire me immediately.  Thus began my apprenticeship.

It didn’t last long. Within a year, I dropped out of high school to spend more time at Tat-A-Rama. As it turns out spending more time in the shop gave them all an opportunity to realize just how much of a brat I was and was summarily dismissed for back talk and laziness. This allowed me to add DROPOUT to my ever growing list of qualities. Above all though, I was ambitious.  I set up shop in my mom’s basement and began tattooing anyone who would sit still within the first week of my unemployment. I also finally got to use my Spaulding and Rogers flyweight. I didn’t have to follow any rules or listen to the bossy jerks at the tattoo shop, and best thing of all: I was finally a real deal tattooer. No more being a lowly “apprentice tattooer” for me.

Well, kind of.

I had to get a job as a security guard so I could afford the supplies to do the tattoos that I was doing. I also had to get a job in a warehouse when the security thing didn’t work out, and in a kitty litter factory when the warehouse let me go. See a pattern emerging here? My brief encounters with the real working life of an adult were a cold shock. I was terrible at living the life of a shmuck. I had to wise my ass up and get back to easy street. All of a sudden the rules and menial work of an apprentice looked positively rosy, I could make a decent life out of getting to work at 11 am and getting paid in cash. I needed to work my way back into a shop pronto.

If this were a movie, we’d be at the training montage scene. Our hero tattooing all weekend long and developing photos. Our hero drawing in a sketch book and pasting up a modest portfolio. Our hero begging for his job back. Our hero returning to the shop humbled but ready to learn. Against the owners better judgment I was reinstated to my former position as an apprentice tattooer. It took another year before I tattooed a paying stranger, but I did it. Read that? I tattooed a stranger for money! that made me a real deal, dyed in the wool, full stripe, f’real tattooer!

Since then I’ve done tens of thousands of tattoos on thousands of paying strangers for money. I hope to do thousands more before being fired again for good.

-Kyle