Tattoos

When I was a teenager in the 80s, it was only bad boys and sailors who had tattoos. Other than one pal with a Madness logo on his ankle, not a single classmate or fellow student was inked.

It just wasn’t a thing. Tattoo parlours barely existed. There was one down in Aberdeen harbour, but to this neat-haired, clean-living teenager, there was an aura of danger surrounding it. There was another near my student flat in Edinburgh. I hurried past, wide-eyed at the images in the window of blood-soaked daggers or furious-looking skulls. There was always a funny smell coming from there too. It was years before I worked that out.

So, would I ever get a tattoo? Not on your pristine nelly. It wasn’t that I didn’t fancy the association with bad boys and sailors, more that I knew how fickle I was; how likely I was to change my mind. Although I still love George Michael, the thought of now living with a Wham lyric lacing up my arm, leaves me cold. (Mind you, it’s true. Guilty feet have got no rhythm…)

Fast forward a generation and it’s a different story. Barely a body is ink-free, and the bad-boy image is gone. Tattoo parlours are as ubiquitous as nail salons. They are as sanitary as dental surgeries, as bright and airy as the best coffee shops, and are staffed by serious, talented artists. Barely a sleeveless leather jacket to be seen.

New research suggests the largest growing demographic of their clients is me. Women in their 50s are using their bodies as a canvas for self-expression and choosing decorations that will be with them – laser removal aside – for life. And it is wonderful. It’s liberating. It’s big, big business. And I have joined their ranks.

In fact, I was ‘drawn on’ a couple of years ago, just days before lockdown began. I’d been mulling it over for ages, but I’d worried. Not about changing my mind, because the design I’d chosen was something incredibly meaningful to me, but about how it might be perceived. What would my friends think? My clients? My mum? I kept pushing it to the back of my mind, but like all the best ideas, it kept resurfacing.

Two years after I’d decided on my design, stalked my tattoo artist on Instagram, and stopped caring what anyone else would think, I booked my appointment. And – much to the poor woman’s horror – I wept my way through the process. Not because it was painful (it wasn’t) but because of what it meant to finally get it done.

I love my tattoo. It’s personal, it’s beautiful, and it’s me. And not a soul has judged me for it, or if they have, they’ve been kind enough to keep it to themselves.

They say that once you get your first tattoo, the craving for more will strike. So far, not yet. But never say never. After all, I might still be tempted by those Wham lyrics…