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What's the matter?
afraid of a little bad luck?
Jazz sat cross legged on the floor of the tattoo parlor that she worked part time at. Yes, on the floor. What? She thought better down here. Her wild pink hair was, for once, in a knot on the back of her head rather than pigtails so that it couldn’t go in front of her face and distract her. She was doing artwork that would be permanently on people’s bodies, she wasn’t going to chance totally ruining it because she had to blow her hair out of her face. She wasn’t going to ruin her reputation that way. Not when reputation was what she had right now, until she managed to get somewhere else, do something else.
Not that she didn’t adore doing this work. Because she did. The idea of putting something permanent on someone’s body was always a bit of a thrill to her. Plus, it meant she actually got to use one of her damn degrees instead of just using her agility to watch people fawn over her—don’t get her wrong, she loved that too. It was totally gratifying. But she enjoyed this sort of fame too. The one attached as much to her work as her. It was oddly… satisfying. In ways she had never thought that sort of thing would be gratifying.
The flavor of little black dress today was open entirely in the back to show off her own tattoo—a massive one that took up most of her back and depicted scenes of bad luck. It was probably bad form to do that, being that she got none of her work done at her job and instead went to the rival tattoo parlor for it—it made her laugh—but she always thought it was important for tattoo artists to show off that they too were inked.
Today she was working on another commission. One of her usual customers had requested a new bit of artwork and she was working on the designs in the sketchbook that was currently open before her, also on the floor. She knew she made an odd sight but it was an off day. She was the only artist in today, and she had no appointments, just waiting for walk ins if they decided to pop in and working on her designs. So there was no harm to her sitting in the middle of the floor. At least she wasn’t back where the art happened. Or maybe that would be better than the lobby. Whatever.
She heard the bell and called out without looking up. ”The Bad Omen artist is in, what can I do for ya” she asked, with her head still down in her sketch. She could hear without seeing, thank you. Okay, so she should never be allowed near customers. Whatever. She did good work. She also had totally branded herself as the bad omen artist. It was her instagram handle for her tattoo work. Why not? If they wanted something, they could say so.
ohhey, open for jazz