They’re Not Just For Christmas

“You know that’s going to be there for ever?” Durrrh … really?

Having said that, with modern technology leaving no trail unblazed, you no longer have to undertake a near skin transplant to have them removed. Tattoos are now quicker and easier to remove than ever before; in fact, many tattoo shops also kindly offer a removal service as an add on; like a restaurant with a lipo clinic out by the loos.

No self-respecting midlife reviewer could go through this point in their life without contemplating a tattoo and, as I didn’t have one, that went on the bucket list. Now, the compelling factor was not that I didn't have one already, I mean, I don’t have a herd of Gnu in my garden either but I have never wanted a herd of Gnu. I have, though, always wanted a tattoo but knew I had to navigate several hurdles first.

Looks Harmless Enough

Firstly, Papa. My dad. A man with traditional views, my beloved dad was firm when it came to tattoos. They were for men. Not all men though, just those in the Navy and also long staying inmates of high security prisons. They were not for women. Women were slender, pretty, wore skirts and could whip up a good cottage pie - if you could strip a Gatling Gun in under 10 then you could probably forego the skirt. Women did not have inks...unless they were gay. It was fairly clear cut.

Maud Wagner - The first documented female tattoo artist

My lovely dad, sadly, passed away last year and so, like the coward I am, I realised I had totally dodged the bullet (I'm not suggesting dad was shot and I ducked). I was then at liberty to daub myself in any way I saw fit. Additionally, as a public service, I have also now dispelled any fanciful notions about life after death as, if there were any reason for a serious bit of haunting, my planned act of rebellion would have been it. So far, nothing. Papa has remained shtum.

My second hurdle was to decide where to put said inking. Whilst on our holibobs in the summer, Rock pointed out the lady ahead of us in the queue for the rapids (Centre Parcs not Colorado) at the swimming pool had 2 penises tattooed on her back. On closer inspection it became clear that it was the knees of a Buddha tattoo, sitting cross legged. Due to the unfortunate design of her swimming cossie, the body and head of the holy one, were pretty much hidden with only the knees on show.

Location, location, location. Placement is key and, to avoid such indelible disasters, the ‘where’ must not be taken lightly. Being a highly practical person I started researching “which part of the body goes saggy last”. Now, unfortunately I could only ascertain which parts of the body aged first, so, by process of elimination, I was left with toes, back of the neck and wrist. I went with wrist.

I have never recalled seeing a badly ageing wrist.

Now, finally, to the ‘what’. Tattoo fashions have undulated over the years but with almost half of millennials (yes, I’m aware that I am 30 years over my sell by date there), now rocking a tat, they have never been so fashionable and I was getting in on that action.

With the rich and famous leading the charge and displaying their new body art as often as they do their new shoes, it seems everyone is at it. Rihanna, Angelina Jolie, Bieber are all heading for full body suits and, my all time fave, Ed Sheeran who, love him, has all the criteria of being cool…but he's just not, who has, drum roll, a Heinz Ketchup label tattoo. Awesome. Clashes with the hair a little but hey, the man is a maverick.

My research lured me down a rabbit hole of hilarious branding faux pas, which, I grant you, all seem to have the same reformatory theme. Look up ‘bad tattoos’ on the interweb. It’s an hour of your life you won’t get back but, man o man, is it funny.

Papa associated tattoos with sailors, punks and the downright feckless so it’s no small wonder that his views were a little tainted. In my time though the art of tattooing has become just that, an art. If done properly. Not, for instance, by your mate with a pin and some Indian ink on a grey Monday morning when you should have been at school (if you ever meet My Rock, ask him about that). Things have moved on in the realm of tattoos, even in the last 5 years; remember the ‘Tramp Stamp’ of a decade ago (if you are not familiar, a tattoo on a woman's back, on the hinterland between the muffin top and waistband), the un-ironic tribal tattoo on white, freckle covered arms?

After having loitered around the tattoo parlour half a dozen times or more, I took a hearty inhale and stepped over the threshold. Somehow the combination of Funeral Doom Metal playing in the background like the lift music on the way down to the pits of hell seemed appropriate.

The young man who came in from his tea break expertly negotiating a cheese bap despite the multiple lip piercings was not out of place.

I, though, had never felt so out of place and middle aged but I was now on the inside of the door. I couldn’t claim I was ‘just browsing” so, with Midlife Review firmly in mind, I booked my appointment.

One week later, I met with Tom. Tom didn’t have a full face tattoo. Tom looked relatively homely. Tom did though, doodle a design on my arm with a pink sharpie, which didn't initially fill me with confidence but, 45 minutes later… Tah Daaahh.

Thanks to Tom @ Black Heart

My tattoo signifies my life, my growth, my courage. Each flower represents one of my children, one for my ma and one for My Rock. Like all good, healthy vines, my tattoo will grow… a little.

Ultimately, perhaps it doesn’t matter about the what or the where, as, in 20 years or so, you would have to get past the age spots, creases and wrinkles before the ink would come into any type of focus.

Bron To Be WILD!!!!