The refurbished railway station in London I entered last week had none of the usual signs of being a tattoo studio. The walls were devoid of any art, and there were no reclining chairs or massage tables in the room. The only tattoo gun on the premises sat in a display case instead of buzzing in someone’s gloved hand. I felt like I was getting inked in a half-assembled biolab with some interesting benefits.
I’m not trying to put on a show of bravado when I say my latest tattoo didn’t…
