To Numb or Not To Numb?
This isn’t a blog post I want to write. It is, however, one I think I have to write.
In the past few years, the tattoo industry has seen a huge proliferation in numbing agents. These come in the forms of creams, sprays, and other more extreme methods that are designed to reduce or completely eliminate all pain in tattooing. Although these products are a relatively new phenomena, they have quickly taken over the industry. The market is being flooded with new numbing products, which are being pushed on social media through advertisements and influencers. As a result, more and more clients are asking me whether or not they should apply numbing agents before a session.
With all this happening, I think it’s important to address the pros and cons of numbing agents, my own experiences with them, and how they are fundamentally altering the art of tattooing.
The debate over using numbing agents is polarizing for both artists and clients. On the one hand, they can cause tremendous relief for patients undergoing this extreme body modification; on the other hand, they take away one of the fundamental aspects of the art-form and can pose risks to the process itself. I myself am deeply conflicted. And while I am reluctant to discuss this topic, for reasons I’ll address later, I also know it can’t be avoided forever.
So, here we go: to numb or not to numb? That is the question…
Before we dive into the pros, cons, and controversies, it’s important to understand exactly what numbing agents are. The most common types are sprays and creams that contain small to medium amounts of lidocaine. Sprays typically have between 3 to 10% lidocaine and are usually used on open wounds, so they have to be applied after the tattoo has already begun. Creams can have up to 10% lidocaine and are meant to be applied and then removed before a wound is caused. This is a brief overview of just one ingredient. I strongly advise anyone who is tempted to try numbing products to research all of the ingredients, as well as the potential side-effects and complications that may occur when using other medicines in conjunction. Not to sound too much like the warning portion of a medicine advertisement, but please always ask your artist and doctor before using numbing products. Some can have draw-backs, like hardening the skin into a leathery texture, making it very difficult to tattoo certain styles.
Apart from sprays and creams, there are also more extreme forms of “numbing” the pain of tattoos.
The most controversial of these involves putting clients under general anesthesia so that they are unconscious while one or several artists tattoo them, sometimes over the course of multiple days. At first, I couldn’t believe this was legal, especially in the United States. I had only seen it done through videos in tattoo shops in other countries. But I recently learned of more than one American company that offers it and is hoping to make it more widely accessible. Prior to this, it seemed that celebrities and the uber-wealthy only had access to this “pain-free” way to get tattooed, and I imagine that the artists who were participating were paid very well.
My first experience with numbing agents was long enough ago that I hadn’t yet started my body suit, although I was still pretty covered. It was during my first chest piece that my artist offered me numbing spray. Without knowing anything about it, I said yes. I was blown away. The relief was instantaneous and complete, and I genuinely thought it was a miracle drug. After that, I began asking for it more and more.
It wasn’t until I got a large arm piece without numbing spray that I realized how dependent on numbing sprays I’d become. I couldn't sit through the whole session and had to tap-out very early. The shame I felt around this was eye-opening. I realized that I had lost all my coping mechanisms for dealing with pain. This was particularly discouraging because I had spent years learning how to manage tattoo pain. All of that practice went down the drain once I became reliant on numbing spray.
After that, I promised myself I would stop using numbing agents altogether, especially once I began my body suit.
This decision wasn’t just about the fear numbing spray had become a crutch. I was also motivated by deeper questions about the nature of tattooing: questions like what even is this artform without the element that includes pain, endurance, and resilience?
Tattooing has always been a rite of passage and I often look to the communities where tattoo traditions are strong for examples of this. In Samoan and Tonga cultures, young men were not allowed to speak to certain elders until they had received their tattoos. If they didn’t finish their tattoos, they could endanger their opportunities for marriage and social integration. While I’m not saying we should outcast people who stop a tattoo session early, my point is that tattooing is as much about the process as it is about the end result. In some ways, it’s like an endurance sport: long, hard, and painful, but worth it for the sense of accomplishment and sheer badassery that await you at the end. It is proof to others that you have opted to put your mental and physical strength to the test and you’ve succeeded.
“ If you numb yourself to the entire experience, if you try to avoid what is difficult about it, then that accomplishment isn’t earned.”
That being said, I do think there is a place for numbing agents. And this is where I’m torn.
When I started getting my body suit, I learned that, contrary to what I assumed, my artist was not completely opposed to numbing agents. By that point, I had proudly started to build back up my pain-coping mechanisms and was, once again, faced with the decision, do I numb or not? To this day, I am open and honest about when I have chosen the former. These instances were rare and they tended to be near the end of three-day sessions when I could feel that my body had given up. I also used numbing cream for some of the layers of white ink required for the large coverup on my chest and torso. We’ve done many layers of white ink to hide the original tattoo underneath, I’ve lost track of just how many. This begs the question, if a person has sat through tattooing a portion of the body once, or even twice, do they need to experience the pain of that area more times? I’m not sure what the correct answer is, I suppose it is purely up to the individual’s perspective, but when I was disappointed in myself for needing assistance during the additional layers of ink on my torso and chest cover-up, my artist reassured me, “You have nothing more to prove.”
And he was right: I didn’t. Using the numbing cream allowed me to get through the final hurdle once I had pushed myself to my limit, often multiple times.
This is also how I like to use numbing agents with my clients: as a tool, not a cop-out. It is a last resort, in the final stretch of the piece, so that they can make it to the end of a sitting. It’s especially useful for clients who, like me, travel for their tattoos, and we only have a few days to get everything done. Sometimes, by the last session, our bodies begin to shake from adrenaline release and tension and pain-coping distractions stop working. At this point, a numbing agent can be very useful if, only to help wrap up tattooing for the day.
However, another important downside should be noted. Numbing agents, especially the creams, can have physically uncomfortable draw-backs and if used on enough occasions, these are likely to be experienced at least once. For example, I’ve found that lidocaine tends to slow down the healing process of the tattoo. Additionally, an intense burning, itching sensation can occur while the tattoo is shedding its scabs. I’ve experienced this feeling before and I cannot express enough how torturous it is. I know friends who have sworn off numbing altogether having experienced it too. The tattoo heals looking as it should, but I cannot help but feel haunted by the threat of that specific side-effect, thinking “I would have rather just felt the tattooing pain momentarily than that unbearable, burning itch”. Keeping that thought in mind has made it much easier to say no to numbing. Just a short time ago, I had both of my armpits tattooed on day two of a tattoo trip. This is considered one of the most sensitive places on the body and I felt all of it, proudly, knowing that numbing no longer has its devious grasp on my mind.
By now I hope it makes sense why, as a tattoo artist and much like the artist who tattoos me, I strongly prefer to use numbing agents sparingly or not at all. When a client asks for them at the beginning of a session, I always say, “Let’s start without them and see how you do.”
The reason I don’t like to tell clients about numbing agents ahead of time, and why I was reluctant to write this blog post, is because the moment the idea is put in a client’s head, it takes over. From then on, that devious grasp is there, in the back of their mind, as a way out. They fear pain and want to avoid it, rather than facing it bravely.
I’ve seen it happen many times: the knowledge of pain relief changes the client’s ability to sit through the session. I know that whenever a client comes in having already applied numbing cream, it’s going to be a difficult session. The numbing cream will inevitably wear off, usually fairly quickly, and they will be unable to manage the pain. Sometimes they will beg me to put more on, which I won’t for fear of lidocaine over-use, and in the end, they will tap out early. It’s not because they’re weaker than other clients, but because they went into the tattoo psychologically unprepared for the challenge of the experience. The clients who fair the best are those who come in a little bit afraid, or at least wary, of what is about to happen. That way, they are preparing mentally for the physically demanding ordeal they’re about to go through.
Because make no mistake: tattooing is an ordeal. That’s part of what makes it so special.
“Make no mistake: tattooing is an ordeal. That’s part of what makes it so special. ”
One of the arguments I sometimes hear about numbing agents is that they make the artform more accessible to people with low pain tolerances. I don’t know if I buy this, though. People always assume I have a high pain tolerance because I have a body suit, but I don’t. This shit hurts. A lot. A needle puncturing skin was never meant to be a pleasant experience; it is supposed to be an ordeal; something you overcome; something transformative. I was able to sit through my body suit only because I learned how to manage pain. It is a practice. A practice I love to teach my clients.
Helping clients manage pain is something a lot of artists don’t think about before they get into the industry. I have even heard artists speak in favor of numbing agents because it means they have to do less “customer service” to coach their clients through the experience. And while I understand that it can be a lot to create a design, sit for hours tattooing it, and help someone through fatigue and discomfort, I also believe this is an essential part of the job.
Tattoo artists aren’t just practitioners, we are guides, leading our clients through a transformative experience. We do this by talking to our clients, getting to know them, giving them strategies to deal with the pain, and encouraging them when they don’t feel strong. It is also how we pass on the knowledge we learned from our own tattoos; how we help people build resilience.
This resilience is one of the best outcomes of tattooing. Learning to sit with and accept pain, instead of trying to fight it or find a shortcut, is an important skill to cultivate in life. I’m not saying we should force ourselves to remain in pain if we are injured or sick, but tattooing isn’t an illness: it’s a choice people make; a luxury item, if you will. Clients have elected to go through this experience for this art. Maybe that sounds like gate-keeping, but tattooing doesn’t have to be for everyone. It’s not a human right to have a tattoo, and if you’re not willing to put up with any pain, then it might not be the form of self-expression for you. But if you are willing to do it, it can teach you so much about coping with and accepting difficult experiences. In this way, I truly think of tattooing as a kind of therapeutic challenge, and I would be very sad to see this aspect disappear because of numbing agents.
Of course, as I have said before, I think there is a time and place for numbing sprays and creams. But what really worries me is the general anesthesia that people are electing to undergo, at an astronomical price, to completely eliminate pain.
There is a lot to say about these procedures. To begin with, I have concerns about their safety. There are reasons why surgeons will do anything to avoid putting patients under general anesthesia: it’s not without danger and things can easily go wrong. There is also the issue of consent. Artists often have to make adjustments to pieces and touch people in vulnerable places, and I’m uncomfortable with that being done while a client is “out” and can’t give permission.
I also think that being put under defeats the entire purpose of tattooing. I have seen, time and time again, the looks of pure elation on my clients’ faces when they finish long, hard sessions. They are proud of themselves, of their ability to get through it, and I am in absolute awe of their strength. It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like to see my client wake up from anesthesia, groggy and confused, to see their body so suddenly and radically altered, without having experienced the transformation itself.
This idea of tattooing as a transformative experience, as an art form reached through the struggle of the pain, might be clinging to tradition—and I know some people will call me a purist—but, if I may paraphrase what my tattoo artist once said to me: “Tattooing is changing rapidly. It’s up to us, as tattoo artists, to preserve its most important traditions.”
So while I know that numbing agents have their uses, and I’m not opposed to them as a last-resort stop-gap, I do worry about their overuse. I don’t think that they are making the industry better. And I’m afraid that the industry’s overreliance on them takes away one of the most integral and beautiful parts of this unique and challenging artform.
