Camille Jansen

After greeting me, Camille quickly slipped through the narrow corridor, ignoring my usual rule about taking off shoes indoors. It’s not a common practice in France, so I normally ask my clients to do it right away. But not this time—Camille was already a step ahead of me and my rules.

I like teenagers like Camille : confident in themselves and their desires, open-minded, easygoing, and very active. They just come in and find their place. I like to think I was the same when I was eighteen.

Camille was dressed in black, just as I had asked. She wore a tight top, loose pants with pockets, and worn-out sneakers. She also had small golden hoop earrings—classic ones that looked tasteful yet understated on her beautiful, tanned, freckled face. Maybe one of her relatives had given them to her; who knows.

“Why do you want a tattoo of a cowboy hat?” I asked.
“I spent the best summer of my life in LA, and I want to remember it like that,” she answered fluently—that was Camille.
“Sounds good, I like it. I have a tattoo that reminds me of one summer too. But it was in West Crimea, not Los Angeles.” I lifted my pant leg and showed her the big tattoo of a UAZ-469 on my calf. She laughed.
“How come you speak English so well?”
“My parents are English. They moved to Paris before I was born, so I speak English and French equally well. The American accent I picked up from my friends while I was in LA.”
“Cool! I’m picking up the accent from my friends too,” I tried to joke, but it didn’t quite land.

During the session, Camille seemed dreamy, thinking about LA—the city where her boyfriend is, her friends, high-quality weed, and cowboy hats. She was eager about her life and didn’t ask me a single question about tattoos.