Removing the social barrier of facial tattoos
Tattoo removalist Helena Carter knows what a big deal it is for gang members to have their tattoos erased.
‘‘There’s some quite good research that shows that most recidivist prisoners try to stop at around 45 or so,’’ she says.
‘‘They meet a nice lady and they realise that being a gangster is a dumb-ass idea, so getting rid of the tattoos is really important to them.’’
Carter has worked in two of Auckland’s major prisons for several years: at one she left a large, expensive laser permanently installed.
In a high-security prison, she has three wardens guarding her while she does her work; in another facility, she’s left alone with the inmate.
Tattoo removal in prison was funded by the government in the past, but the scheme was axed in 2006 after a public outcry when taxpayers forked out $4500 for a violent white supremacist to have his ‘‘Mongrel Mob Forever’’ tattoo lasered off.
Department of Corrections acting national commissioner Leigh Marsh said corrections did not fund tattoo removal or set prices.
The exception was a programme in the lower north region, which had been providing funding to support tattoo removal on the face and hands of individuals whose tattoos were hindering their access to employment and when the person was experiencing financial hardship.
Tattoos could be a real barrier, especially if they were ‘‘gang related or otherwise offensive’’, Marsh said.
He said this was a youth-focused initiative involving prisons in the region which had been running since 2019 with an initial budget of $25,000.
Outside this area, tattoo removal was normally offered at a discounted rate by a local or regional provider and payment was arranged between the provider and their client, he said.
Additional funding came from Work and Income New Zealand, which allows tattoo removal as part of the transition to work grant.
Carter charges $50 for low-cost treatment over a couple of days a month treating 20-plus inmates.
When it comes to what gets removed, the obvious one is the name of the ex – ‘‘because not all women hang around’’.
But her real passion is her speciality: facial tattoos. ‘‘It’s a very unpleasant experience for the guy. I use ice to try and cool the area down, but believe me, it’s excruciatingly painful.
‘‘When they’re getting it [the original tattoo] done it’s painful as well but there’s all that excitement, there’s the sneaking around.’’
One inmate told her how the ink that went into the tattoo came from a burnt jandal, a process that filled the cell with smoke.
Most of the tattoos that she removes in prison were done in prison.
Carter treats everyone from very young men to 50 or 60-year-olds.
Many of her clients are former inmates who continue the removal process on the outside. She’s removing facial tattoos from a man who has been a gang member for more than 40 years.
Carter says she is not aware of what the men she treats have done, but says she loves her job, and loves the guys, who she spends hours with getting to know.
‘‘Generally, they’re very grateful for the help that they receive. Ninety-five per cent of my clients on the inside, I’d happily catch up for coffee with on the outside. I love these guys, I really do.
‘‘And it’s such a privilege and a pleasure to be able to help, even though I’m inflicting extreme pain.’’
In Patched: The History of Gangs in New Zealand, author Jarrod Gilbert argued that facial tattoos ‘‘work as a powerful form of social control’’.
‘‘Even if membership is severed, a man with such tattoos is always going to be perceived as a member by the public, and by opposition groups – yet he will lack the social and physical support offered by membership.’’
Ideally, Carter would like to see the process beginning far earlier in an inmate’s prison term, and better resourcing.