Nobody writesat three in the afternoon.
One ordinary night in your inbox. Every message is real and every hour is outside working hours.
How much for a half sleeve?
It's priced by the day, not by the inch — a half sleeve is usually more than one sitting. Send the idea and the placement and you'll get a real figure, not a guess.
Do you do cover-ups?
Yes, with a photo first. What's already there decides what can go over it, so nothing is promised before it's seen.
What's your deposit?
A deposit holds the date and comes off the final price. It covers the drawing time, so it moves with you once but isn't refundable.
How far out are you booking?
The book runs a few weeks ahead and moves. Leave the idea now and you'll be told the next real date rather than a waiting list.
Would this work on a forearm or is it too big?
Most designs fit a forearm; the question is what has to be dropped to keep it readable in ten years. Send the reference and the arm.
Do you tattoo hands?
Hands are done case by case. They fade faster and often need a touch-up, so they're agreed in person, not over a message.
Day three and it's peeling, is that normal?
Normal. Skin lifts in flakes around day three to five. Don't pull it, don't help it — wash, dry, thin layer of cream.
Can I get in the sea on Saturday?
Not yet. No sea, pool or bath until it's fully closed — usually two to three weeks. Showers are fine.
It itches so much I want to scratch it off
Itching is the heal working. Tap it, don't scratch it, and keep the cream thin — thick layers make it worse.
The colour looks flat, did something go wrong?
That's the milky stage — a layer of new skin sitting over the ink. It clears by about week three and the colour comes back.
I slept on it, have I ruined it?
Almost certainly not. Wash it, let it dry in the air, and leave it uncovered. Send a photo in the morning if it looks angry.
It's red and hot and I feel unwell
This one is not answered here. Redness with heat and feeling unwell needs a doctor now — go to a clinic or emergency service today, not tomorrow. Message the artist afterwards.
The desk
You lose an hour a day to your phone. Not tattooing. Answering.
How much for a sleeve. Do you do cover-ups. Is it meant to peel like this. What's the deposit. Where do I park. The same questions, every day, in the gaps between sessions and again when you get home.
Your site answers them. All of them, all night, in your words and your prices — because it knows what you charge, what you won't take on, how your deposit works and how far out your books run.
It isn't pretending to be you. It's the person at the front desk you've never had.
When someone's serious, it takes the brief properly — placement, size, references, budget, dates — takes the deposit, and hands you a real enquiry instead of six days of messages.
After the session
Your client walks out with a link. It lives on your site and it's theirs for as long as the piece is healing.
Day three it's peeling and they think something's gone wrong. Day five it itches so badly they want to scratch it off. Week two the colour looks flat and they've convinced themselves you made a mistake. They've knocked it. They've slept on it. They want to know if they can get in the sea on Saturday.
None of that is a question for eleven at night. All of it arrives at eleven at night.
The button answers it, in your aftercare, not somebody else's. And it asks them for a photo — which is how you end up with a record of your own healed work, the thing serious clients look for and almost no artist has.
Anything that looks like it needs a doctor, it says so plainly and stops. It will never guess about a body.
Anything actually about the work comes straight to you.
How it knows
Before it goes near a client, everything comes off you. Prices. What you won't take on. How the deposit works. Aftercare in your words, not a template. How far your books run. How you actually talk to people. Over WhatsApp, a call, whatever suits — you're wherever you are and so am I.
You've answered all of it a thousand times. In DMs at eleven at night. On the phone with the machine still warm. To someone who found you last week and asked exactly what the one before asked.
Say it once, properly. That's the last time you ever have to.
Then it knows two things — you, and the trade.
Ask it about you and it answers from what you gave it. What you charge. Whether you'll take it on. When you're free. It can't invent a price because there's nothing to invent from.
Ask it about tattooing and it answers that too. How a piece heals and what week two looks like. Why fine line ages differently to blackwork. What ribs actually feel like. What to eat beforehand, what to do if it's their first. Anything a client would ask before they were brave enough to ask you.
And when the two disagree, you win. Every time. If the world says one thing about aftercare and you say another, it says yours.
A machine for the desk. Never for the work.