For my first act as a single dad, I traveled from the Bay Area to Las Vegas for a tattoo

All told, the experience was a way station on an unexpected journey into life as a single dad. But this is a story about my tattoo, not my divorce.

It might seem unusual that I went all the way to Vegas to get a tattoo. For me, however, the city has become a home away from home.

As a travel and gambling writer, I’ve covered the city as a beat for nearly 20 years; in that time, I’ve written parts of 15 guidebooks and penned dozens of articles about everything from game inventors to butt models. I know the town better than most locals. I’ve got as many friends there as I do in my community here in Wine Country.

There’s more to my connection with Las Vegas than work. As a type-A New York transplant who lives out loud, the city’s garishness resonates in my core. Visiting is like mainlining an over-the-top zest for life I haven’t found anywhere else outside NYC. I feed off the city’s energy. This phenomenon is simultaneously rejuvenating and restorative; for as long as I can remember, Las Vegas has been my go-to spot for a dose of positivity when I feel depleted, defeated or rundown. Put simply, it is one of the places on Earth where I feel the most me.

Naturally, then, Las Vegas had to play a major role in the transition to my new reality. It also seemed like a good backdrop for one of my first official acts of independence: the tattoo.

“The Tat” has tempted me for years. Back in 2015, after my youngest was born, I remember contemplating the idea as a commitment to putting her and her sisters first. Pre-pandemic, I flew to Vegas roughly once a month; now and then I visited some of the area’s 200 tattoo parlors for “research” purposes. I just never felt ready.

Fast-forward to this year. I filed for divorce in mid-March.  I was fully vaccinated by early May. Sometime around June 1, I was ready to book my first trip back to Las Vegas in 14 months. So I looked at the calendar and it hit me: The girls would be with their mom on Father’s Day.

I saw it as a sign. 

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The first, and most important, step was to find the right artist. I wasn’t sure what I wanted the tattoo to look like, but I knew I wanted it in the American traditional style. This is the cartoony ink you see on old sailors and, for me, would be an homage to my paternal grandfather, who had a “hula girl” tattoo on his forearm that he would make “dance” by flexing his muscles.

Ultimately, a friend recommended Amanda Hoffman, an artist at Dirk Vermin’s grungy Pussykat Tattoo Parlor out near the University of Nevada, Las Vegas campus. I sent her a deposit via Venmo and booked the last slot of the afternoon.

My alarm(s) woke me around 5 a.m. on Father’s Day. No kids, no cards, no breakfast in bed — just me and my suitcase. 

Sure, it was bittersweet; for a moment I was sad to be without some of the married-guy rituals I had enjoyed for my first 12 Father’s Day celebrations. Then I remembered: This pilgrimage to my special spot was the ultimate tribute for the next phase of fatherhood, a fitting celebration of the joy my daughters bring me every day.

When I rolled into Pussykat, Hoffman greeted me with honesty that left me feeling seen and validated all at once.
  
“I can’t be with my dad today, but I think this is a pretty cool alternative,” she said.

We spent the first 45 minutes discussing design. With heavy metal blaring in the background, I told her what I wanted as she sketched on an iPad. The walls were covered with drawings of her work, and I referenced touches I’d like to see in mine: shading on the hearts, a wraparound banner, those exaggerated capital letters.

Finally, I asked her to list the girls on the banner in birth order; the 12-year-old on top, the almost-10-year-old in the middle, the 5.5-year-old last. When she showed me the sketch, I burst into tears.

I don’t remember much about the tattooing process. I was on the table for about 90 minutes. It was hot. When it hurt, I closed my eyes and daydreamed about the places I want to take the girls as a vaccinated family of four: Hawaii, my hometown on Long Island back east, the San Juan Islands of Washington.

As Hoffman was wrapping up, a friend arrived to take pictures. Because of its placement, I couldn't see the tattoo directly, so these photos were more precious to me than a progressive jackpot at pai gow poker, my favorite Vegas table game. 

I quickly texted a pic to my oldest, who had been nagging me for one all day. Her response: “OMG,” followed by a thumbs-up emoji.

I spent the rest of my Father’s Day trip to Vegas wearing a perma-smile. Though the girls were with their mother 600 miles away, they were also with me as I schlepped around like I usually do when I’m in town. We had some great meals at new restaurants. We toured a big shiny Resorts World hotel. We sweated out some sports bets. We spent an afternoon in a dark tiki bar. The girls even joined me in spirit when I asked strangers to apply Aquaphor to the tattoo to keep it moist (seriously). You’d be amazed how easy it is to make friends with that line.

If life as a single dad means voluntarily giving up half my time with the three most important people in my life, at least now I’ll never have to be without them again. Las Vegas has given me plenty over the years. This, without question, is the greatest gift of all. 

Matt Villano is a writer and editor in Healdsburg. Learn more about him at whalehead.com.