Tattoos on or off: Metro Detroit skin artists cover all the bases

Life is rarely 'predictable, young love is rarely eternal, and swastikas rarely expand your career options. That's why Steve Elliott bought lasers.

Elliott and his wife, Jennifer, own American Pride Tattoos. Their ad is over on the right, with the 2-for-1 coupon.

It's on top of an ad for getting rid of tattoos, which at first glance looks like a refundable error by the company that printed the mail-out circular. But wait: It's the same toll-free number.

"We all make mistakes," says Elliott, 31, and whether the error was trusting some cad with your heart or trusting some amateur with a tattoo gun to spell "Penelope" right, he's there to help. While eager customers get their skin perforated in one room, even more eager customers are in another, getting their former ideas of beauty zapped from their lives.

Customers joke about the incongruity, he says, but no one ever seems deterred by the clear reminder that tastes and circumstances change. It's the other guy who won't forever be enraptured with the girl he met 12 days ago in a bar.

Both Elliotts attended an intensive week of laser school in Denver and became certified to erase mistakes under the nominal supervision of their in-house medical director, a general practitioner Steve Elliott meets with a few times a month. The state-of-the-art lasers don't hurt, he says, at least not technically.

It's actually the heated ink that feels anywhere from butterfly-landing-on-your-arm to splattered-with-hot-grease. But the pain of heartbreak is worse, so a wife on the verge of a break-up might find herself getting her husband's name on her abdomen. Look how much I love you, Bobby Joe!

Alas, Elliott says, "tattoos don't fix relationships. I'm thinking, 'I might see you again.'."

Tattoo realities

Elliott had his first tattoo done when he turned 16. His grandmother took him to get a Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil inked on his right ankle.

He's most of the way through having it removed. "That's what was popular back then," he explains. Now it's vivid dragons and Japanese fish.

Modestly tattooed for someone who owns four Oakland County shops, Elliott has eight pieces, the largest a Marine Corps medley of flames, flags and logos on his right forearm. He enlisted at 18, fresh from Roseville High School, and holds a soft spot for the military. If your recruiter sends you over to get that stupid neck tattoo taken off, it's only $75 a session.

Removal prices vary depending on the size, age and color of the tattoo. Blacks and reds surrender quickly. Greens and yellows are stubborn. Old ink disappears more readily than new ink.

For a massive, tailbone-to-shoulders artwork, the fee might be $700, multiplied by at least 10 sessions. Something small and simple could disappear for a few hundred dollars. Elliott prides himself on clean shops and reasonable terms, like no interest for 18 months. He's the Gardner-White of tattoo removal.

He is not, however, your mother. "I'm here to tattoo, pierce, and take tattoos off," says Elliott, who lives in Troy. "Everybody has their own reasons for doing things. I'm not here to judge."

He can tell you that people have spelled their own family members' names wrong, that "Angle" is not the same as "Angel," and that "my guys are artists. They're not English majors."

It's not up to him, however, to warn you that Nazi symbols will not serve you well after you quit the punk band and go to work for Comerica.

He'll just be waiting when you figure it out for yourself.

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