I WAS INDULGING in a manicure (my first in more months than I care to count) a couple of weeks ago, and my (20 years younger than me, egads) manicurist and I started talking tattoos. She’s inked, I’m not, and I swear it’s generational. But she wasn’t so sure.
Once upon a time, I actually thought about getting a tattoo: Twenty years ago I went with my BFF while she got her own ink, a beautiful interpretation of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian man illustration on the back of her right shoulder. I sat with her through the whole process, and was tempted to jump into the inky depths myself. But I could never commit to one image that defined me, and that would do so always. And so, paralyzed by fear of making the wrong choice, my skin remained free of art.
As years passed, I started seeing tattoos everywhere. Was I just paying attention, or are people in their 30s and 20s just a whole lot more, um, decorous than those of my decade?
But I still think about it: a friend posted her new tattoo on Facebook just this week; she’s a few years older than I am, and her teenage daughter took her to the tattoo parlor where she inked on a beautiful bracelet made of adjoining hearts. Tell me sisters: are you inked? If so, how’d you choose words and pictures you’ll likely wear forever? And if not, do you, like me, think about it?
(Tattoo art above from an interview by blogger Crasier Frane with Kelli, who runs a straight edge punk site just for women, xsisterhoodx.)
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I am in my late 30s and surely am inked (and pierced)..the names I chose are ones that are a permanent part of my life path; my child’s name, a loved one’s name. The symbols I chose are ones that speak to me; a kokopelli; a dragon; a baby angel. Although it is body art; the only audience that really matters is oneself.
So funny that you should post this today.
Just yesterday I was staring, and staring and, yes, staring at the the simply gorgeous young woman at whom I’ve stared every single time I go to my hair salon. The front desk receptionist, she is tattooed everywhere except her face, her hands, and the front of her shins. (As you can read, I really did stare). Yesterday–I guess I’ve never before seen her in a skirt–I saw for the first time the strong-man weight lifter on her left calf accompanied by the pin-up girl on her right.
A lovely, civilized place, the salon chooses to have her be the first face you see when you enter.
While I find the idea of tattoos repugnant, my staring at this beautiful young woman was along the lines of wondering if she is beautiful in spite of her tattoos or because of them, and what–if anything–the result of her (to me) astonishing choice of doing this to herself has on how customers perceive the place.
Do these lines and color heighten her looks, or take away from them? Do we, the customers, feel more hip for being there because of her? I rarely stare at people. I suspect everyone stares at her. And is that her intent?
Yes, she’s younger than I am, probably by a good 15 years, and despite dealing with one another now for more than 10 years, I have yet to ask her the story of her body art. Now, I think I will, next time I’m in the salon. I’ll let you know what she says.
I’ve got two tattoos – the first one came about after having thought about getting a tattoo for years and years and also working on my thesis: it’s a very simple ourobouros (snake eating its own tail), which is a symbol heavy with meaning to me and in the world. Then, as they say, tattooing gets to be kind of addictive. By the end of that year, I had my second tattoo, a heart in between my shoulder and neck, in honor of the birthmark I had at birth and which had since faded. (It is in a light brown, so it also looks like a birthmark. I’ve had people ask if it is.)
I’m, uh, also considering another one.
So touched by this post — for obvious reasons.
I love my heart bracelet more everyday.
S is graduating high school in June and my little tiny girl is moving to NYC for college. I am so proud of her, and my heart aches daily as I think about her leaving.
When she was very small, she gave me a delicate gold bracelet of little adjoining hearts. I wore that bracelet everyday for years. I never took it off. One time it broke and we had it soldered back together, and it went right back on. Eventually the little hearts starting coming apart, and one of them starting to scratch my wrist so I could no longer comfortably wear it and finally it couldn’t be fixed.
As I begin to pack my girl up and prepare for this new phase of our lives, (and keep the tears to myself hidden in the bathroom — because she has to be able to go freely without bearing her mother’s angst) — I proudly wear my new heart bracelet. It truly delights my soul every time I catch a glimpse of it.
There is a line in Steel Magnolias — the play at least — about ‘laughter through tears being the deepest (or most satisfying) emotion’ — or something like that — that is where I find myself these days, literally wearing my heart(s) on my sleeve.
Thanks for noticing.
Yes, I am inked. I have 4 of them, in 2 places. My first at 27 years old, was the smallest peace dove I could ever imagine getting on my right wrist.
The second was a Pansy on my right ankle. Both of them were very small, and I did not love them.
My third, I went to a wonderful artist in Portsmouth, NH to have a larger Peace Dove put over my first, this one has a olive branch.
My fourth, is a large bunch of Pansies with the name Devon in the middle on my right ankle. Devon, was my dog that I had for 11 1/2 years, I lost him to bone cancer. It is still so clear in my mind the morning I decided to do this. I was taking a shower in the late fall of 1999, weeping, missing him so much. As I was shaving my legs, I looked at my ankle and thought of him. 3 days later a permanent memory of him was tattooed over my second tattoo. I remember my Mother’s face when I went to visit, it was not one of her best.
I am contemplating another piece of art, to me it is all about what I am going through and how I feel.
Now you know a lot more about me that I anticipated in sharing.
Not sure if it is generational, I think it is individual.
I don’t have any tattoos.
I don’t have anything against them but I could never think of anything that I wanted to keep on my body for the rest of my life. Even at 18, I realized that I did not want to be the 90 year old in the nursing home with “Property of Hell’s Angels” tattooed across my ass or the de rigeur rose-on-the-shoulder, now drooping and wilted.
Rockboy (my 20 year old son) has more tattoos than I can count – both arms are sleeved and he’s started on his legs. Some of the work is really lovely and all of it is symbolic and has significance to him – grandparents both living and dead, etc.
I know that tattooing is definitely entering the mainstream and much more accepted than in years past, but I still worry that his artwork affects his potential for jobs.
My daughter and I got tattooed together on her eighteenth birthday. We have matching birthmarks on opposite ankles so we both had tiny (between a nickel & dime or slightly larger than a five pence coin) tattoos put on the ankles that were birthmark free. She had an image from a necklace that she got on a trip we took to Spain one summer when she was fifteen and I have a tiny spider. Both are heavy on symbolism for us and small enough to be covered with a tiny round Band-aid. I think she would agree that it was a great experience for us both.
I have tattoos. All of which I regret to varying degrees depending on the day. Yet somehow I still dream of more…