A tattooed woman is sitting in a seat across from me on the C train. She’s middle aged, petite, and she’s dressed in the outfit of a summer tourist with thick-framed, schoolmarm-ish glasses. And yet, her head is shaved, and in place of hair sits an elaborate, ornamental octopus, rendered in ink. In addition to this she has an array of standard arm and leg tattoos, none of which in their own right, given the current vogue for all manner of tattooing, would draw attention. But her closely-shaved, oiled and glistening skull, with its marine exotica, is impossible to overlook. At some point during the journey a young man boards the train – he is tattooed as well, only more conventionally. He’s busy talking on his phone in the center of the car for the first few minutes, then he repositions himself next to the door and directly above the tattooed woman. Still holding his phone in his hand he casually shifts position so that he can photograph, from close range, the top of the woman’s head.