THE desire to get a tattoo is overwhelming. Well, not overwhelming, more alluring.
The first time I can recall wanting a tattoo was way back when I was but a girl, t’was a long time ago.
There I was on a school trip to Dublin, when I spied a tattoo parlour from the safety of our bus.
My dear amigo Rita and I were but seconds away from breaking the window on said travelling vehicle to make good our escape, all so our bodies could be permanently inked for the rest of our dying days.
Thankfully, a seed of doubt was planted in our naïve young minds and we rethought the entire plan, which essentially ended in us deciding against getting the tattoos.
However Rita, who has been lost somewhere in Melbourne for what seems like eons now, dared to bare her lower back to a tattoo artist a few years later.
She is now the proud owner of some sort of insect on her spine… well, maybe not an insect, it’s actually a scorpion.
I recall being quite angered that she dare get a tattoo without me, but somehow I moved on.
Several friends followed suit, one of them, Tash, perhaps inspired by Prince, got some sort of symbol on her shoulder, later deciding that she despised it. Upon a recent trip to Ibiza she rid herself of the old, coming home with a stunning new tattoo, which cleverly covered up her first efforts.
Her new tattoo is best described as being a cluster of celestial stars, which flow over her shoulder… I can safely say it is the nicest tattoo I’ve ever seen.
And yet I was tortured because, all seeing it did was reawaken the innate desire to ink myself.
“I really want to get a tattoo,” I said to my beloved. “Like, I really want one, like really.” He ignored me.
“Hello, did you hear me! I really, really want a tattoo. Discuss.”
“I heard you.”
“Well, what do you think?” I ask.
“It’s your body,” he says nonchalantly.
At this juncture I consider shaking him.
“Yes, but what do you actually think about it? I really want one! I’m thinking the back of my neck because I can cover it with my hair AND it’s behind me so like, I don’t have to see it.”
He scrunches his nose and continues to ignore me.
A while later he points at a girl whose neck is unfortunately tattooed and says, “Ugh!” so I definitely know he is not a fan.
Naturally, I get overly defensive and launch into an earnest rant about how MY tattoo would be far smaller than that and how it would surely act as an expression of myself.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he dares to say. I thought about it for a while and agreed.
It doesn’t make any sense but I can’t come up with one good reason for me to get a tattoo other than I just want one.
It has now got to the stage where I walk past the tattoo parlour and stare longingly in the window, only to run away when I see someone who looks like they might be wielding a knife coming out.
After further consideration I realise I am actually slightly frightened of the tattoo people. What if I went into the tattoo place and they refused to ink me.
“Pah, we’re not giving YOU a tattoo,” they might say. “You like Brendan Courtney and pink things and shopping. You’re not tough enough for a tattoo, you’re a disgrace.”
Also there is the fear that I may in fact despise the tattoo, which would only result in me becoming enraged.
The desire was somewhat quelled last week when my significant other announced he had a present for me.
It was a transfer Care Bear tattoo the type five year olds wear I love it.