Frost Moon

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I first started wearing a Mohawk to repel low-lifes-barflies, vampires, Republicans, and so on-but when I found my true profession my hairstyle turned into an ad. People's eyes are drawn by it-no longer a true Mohawk, but a big, unruly deathhawk-a stripe of feathered black, purple and white streaks climbing down the center of my head-but their gazes linger on the tattoos, which start as tribal vines in the shaved spaces on either side of the 'hawk, and then cascade down my throat to my shoulders, flowering into roses and jewels and butterflies.

Their colors are so vivid, their details so sharp many people mistake them for body paint, or assume that they can't have been done in the States. Yes, they're real; no, they're not Japanese-they're all, with a few exceptions, done by my own hand, right here in Atlanta at the Rogue Unicorn in Little Five Points. Drop by-I'll ink you. Ask for Dakota Frost.

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