I like tattoos.
I can’t make that statement without clarifying that I don’t really fancy guys covered from head to foot with tattoos. I certainly don’t like the idea of people tattooing their head and face.
But I like tattoos. I like decoration. I don’t see why the human body can’t be used as a canvas for something beautiful.
There are a lot of reasons why people get tattoos, and many of them are completely spurious. I don’t think any tattoo has deep and powerful meaning, or that you need to get a tattoo in order to tell yourself who you are.
I don’t think tattooing the love of your life across your forearm is a great idea considering the longevity of most relationships these days. Take Johnny Depp as a case in point. (I am quite happy to take Johnny Depp as anything you like, I have a closet set aside for him to live in.)
I am sure that getting a tattoo in order to prove how brave you are is also a stupid idea. Why not just jump out of a plane or strike up a conversation with the violent thug lurking behind Shaftsbury Avenue in order to prove that.
I just like them.
I have to say, I like them on the smaller side though.
There is such a thing as too many tattoos. And there are wrong tattoos, and there are low class tattoos. I don’t have a unicorn tattooed munching about on my bush. I don’t want a guardian angel on my breast. I don’t want anything that anyone else has chosen from the wall of clippings from their local tattoo parlour.
I think getting a tattoo should stem from having an idea of something you’d like to draw on your skin first, not from deciding you want a tattoo, then finding some unoriginal meme from a flip book.
I have two tattoos. My mother hates both of them. My Grandmother probably liked them both, since she rocked just a little bit, inbetween the blue rinse and the traditional custard in a boil tin.
One is a yin yang, done for all the wrong reasons. Broke up with a guy, got a tattoo. It was supposed to mean that I am whole by myself – I am not one half of something. You don’t need a tattoo to tell yourself that. But I still like it. And actually, it’s true. I am still one whole. And when added to another whole, mixed in with two halves and a grace note – we make a little music. Greater than the whole. Add in some more wholes and halves, and we make a symphony. That is life, it’s all about music and harmony.
My other tattoo is a black cat. My black cat. I’m a cat person, so I drew a black cat so he could be with me always. The eventual tattoo didn’t end up exactly like my drawing, but I liked it.
Mr Boxer Shorts doesn’t like either of them. He likes to call me a biker’s moll, to which I take offence, seeing as I was the one with the ducati, and he was the one with the Vesper T4. I’m the biker, not the moll thankyouverymuch.
Neither of my tatttoos are “Tramp stamps”. Tramp stamps are lower back tattoos. Classy much? No. My tattoos are both on my ankle, and for most of the year no-one even notices that they are there.
Both of my daughters want to get a tattoo when they get older. Or at least – they did, until I described how a tattoo is made. Not one to mince words, I made a very visual picture of that needle poking, punching and piercing your skin over and over again in the same place until the whole tattoo is done. Then scabbing over and healing, with the pain and itching that comes hand in hand. As I described the process both faces slowly metamorphosed from a look of glee, to a somewhat melted show of horror. My job here is done. Neither child is fantasising about their new tattoo. They are also not keen to have their ears pierced either, since I drew the analogy of being stapled as a way of describing that bit of fun. See what a good mother I am? Wait until I tell them about sex, huh!
By the time they are old enough to discount my gory details, they’ll be old enough to make that decision for themselves. I am hoping that I never have to describe what happens when you come off your motorbike from any personal experience however.
So back on topic. I want a new tattoo. I want a new tattoo because I have something I want to etch into my skin permanently. I want to get the stars of the southern cross done on my shoulder blade in a brown that makes it look like a birthmark. (They don’t like inking up with colours that fade easily, but it’s my body and my choice. Heard that before?)
I feel I have lost a bit of my Australian identity. I have mostly lost my accent from living here for 13 years, and I have no idea what current affairs in Australia are now. I can’t even remember who the PM is now although I am sure my mother has told me. I think I dropped off the voting roll back in 1997. I hope I did – otherwise I face a large fine when I get back!
I don’t know who anyone is in Neighbours anymore. Or Home and Away.
These feelings prompted the idea to do this. But these feelings won’t be fixed by a tattoo. I don’t need a tattoo to prove that I am still Australian, or to magically update my current and social affairs knowledge. I just like the idea and I want to do it.
All I need is someone who is Australian to notice it and know what it is. And know where I am from, and it will be a shared joke. Or maybe they’ll believe that I really was born with a birthmark in the shape of the southern cross, and wouldn’t THAT be cool!
Photo source: mborowick
