Two days ago, I made two appointments: one for a haircut, which was completely spontaneous, and one for a consult at Two Birds Tattoo. A new haircut and a new tattoo (the latter of which is a Christmas gift from my husband!) seemed like an appropriate way to begin the new year. I haven't actually gotten my tattoo yet, but having an appointment to go over the work I want done finally makes this a concrete thing, instead of something I've just been talking about for two years. I am unimaginably excited.
I also decided it's finally time to write about it, which will hopefully answer the baffled "But...
why?" I keep getting. I actually wrote this several months ago, but I didn't want to post it until my tattoo became a more immediate reality. I don't actually have it yet, but that will change sometime in the next couple of weeks (my consult is next weekend).
Our bodies tell our stories. Some parts are beyond our control -- the stretch marks on my belly, for instance, the permanent reminders of my journey through pregnancy and into motherhood. Or the scars from childhood mishaps: a small one on my chin from the time I ran sobbingly away from first grade and slipped on the ice on my way home, and a slightly more obvious, thicker scar on my knee, the result of a fall from my bike. I have a scar on my left wrist, left by a minor surgery to remove a weird and kind of gross ganglion cyst when I was sixteen.
The stories aren't all pretty ones. They might not even be interesting ones. But they're mine.
Two years ago, I decided that getting a tattoo was something I was absolutely going to do. I didn't do it right away, because I wanted to have another baby first; also, I wasn't sure what kind of tattoo I wanted. I suppose I also wasn't ready to deal with the inevitable range of reactions and judgments my tattoo might elicit from people whose opinions matter to me -- I wasn't quite ready to defend it, I suppose. Nice girls don't get tattoos, after all. The kinds of people who get tattoos are biker chicks and drug addicts and also they are
unfeminine! And how do I think I'll feel when I'm a wrinkly old woman and I've got this ridiculous tattoo?
I suspect I'll feel just fine. My tattoo will be a part of my autobiography as much as my stretch marks and scars are. It's interesting to me that people seem so horrified by the permanence of it, or that they're so sure I'll regret it someday. Some of these people participate in their own forms of body modification -- piercing their ears, for instance -- but that's much more acceptable. Tiny holes in one's ears don't attract much attention, and one can always let them close up -- or at least choose not to wear earrings. But what if I kept my toenails brightly painted all the time? I doubt anyone would bat an eye. Right now, my toenails are a dark red, and each big toenail also sports a little painted flower (my first "fancy" pedicure!). The same people who disapprove of tattoos find this perfectly lovely. Why is it somehow less acceptable, or less feminine, to "paint" my skin? Is it simply that the art on my toenails can be wiped away? That if I change my mind, I can erase that part of myself?
I don't think a tattoo always needs to have some deep, symbolic meaning. People choose their designs for all sorts of reasons; maybe a particular image is just aesthetically pleasing to its wearer. (My flowered toenails are the product of a whim, but I'm sure enjoying them!) Some of them do, of course; lately, I've been into reading stories women have written about their tattoos, and many of them are inspiring or thought-provoking. But just as often as not, the women simply like the way they look, and that's a perfectly acceptable reason to get one. In fact, maybe it's my favorite reason. Because I think almost anyone can appreciate a good story or forgive something they might otherwise judge if it is somehow laced with significant meaning. But why shouldn't it be good enough for a woman to decorate her own body simply because she wants to? Because she likes the way it looks in the mirror?
I've actually put quite a bit of thought into what I want my first tattoo to be. It doesn't necessarily represent a single, defining moment of my life or tell one particular story. Rather, I hope it embodies the essence of who I want to be: someone who embraces joy, who notices beauty in ordinary things, who savors each fleeting moment as it comes.
I'm going to have a hummingbird tattooed on my ankle. When I decided this, I wasn't even thinking about the fact that
my friends decided ages ago that a hummingbird is sort of like my personal totem already; when I remembered, I burst out laughing and realized it seemed all the more appropriate. I knew I wanted a bird, and after exploring a few different ideas, I landed on the hummingbird and felt such a sure "click" in my mind that I've never wavered. It's going on my ankle because that seems like an appropriate place for my first tattoo, I suppose; I can see it without contorting my body or using a mirror, and I can either display it or cover it up with relative ease. That said, I also want at least one tattoo on my shoulder, and I started thinking about that one almost as soon as I decided on the first (the one I haven't even gotten yet). I admit that I used to believe, on some level, that this was somehow distasteful. Unfeminine. Who wants to see that above a formal dress, right? I don't feel that anymore, though. I'm not entirely sure what caused me to change my mind. It might have been seeing my friend Sarah's tattoos -- a bird on each shoulder. They seemed so hopeful, somehow -- simply beautiful. The story I saw in them might not be the same story she was telling, but that's often the case with any other form of artistic expression -- a poem, or a painting, or a song. There's a certain beauty in that, too. I saw them, and I was both inspired and changed. More recently, my friend Dori had a half-sleeve tattooed on her right arm. Not long ago I would have been among those who thought that was a bit much, to say the least, and it would certainly never be something I would consider myself. But when I saw hers, I was completely in awe of how gorgeous it was. It's one of the best tattoos I've ever seen. I'm not sure I see myself running out to get one, but a few years ago I wouldn't have considered tattooing my shoulders or upper arms, either, and now it's well within the realm of possibility.
It's interesting to me how many people, upon learning that I was planning to get a tattoo, asked me what on earth my husband has to say about it. When that's the first response -- instead of asking me why, or what kind of work I want to have done -- I feel admittedly snarky and defensive. I don't actually need my husband's permission, I want to tell them. It's important to me. I want to do this for me. That probably makes me selfish and A Bad Wife, except that I don't actually believe that. Matt and I have had many great, productive, probing discussions about this. The truth? He was honestly never really head-over-heels in love with the idea of my getting a tattoo. He has no desire to mark up his own skin (even though I think he'd look pretty sexy with one, but no one will accuse him of not caring how I feel if he doesn't go out and get one) and doesn't really understand my "need" to do so. However, he is also a feminist and respects me enough to be supportive, especially after we'd talked about my reasons for wanting to do this (and after deconstructing some of his issues with it). Matt isn't so stubborn that he shuts down when his beliefs or opinions are challenged. I wish I could say the same for people who refuse to even consider the possibility that their distaste of tattoos -- especially tattoos on women -- might be rooted in something a little more insidious than, say, personal taste. It's a fact that tattooed women face more discrimination than tattooed men -- what does this say about the way we view womanhood and femininity? I don't think everyone has to want to mark up their skin to prove that they're enlightened (and that's silly, anyway, and definitely not why I'm doing it), and I don't think everyone has to like or appreciate tattoos (or at least not all of them), but I do wish we could have more conversations about why there seems to be such judgment and distaste for women who choose to get them.
The bottom line is that my husband understands that I am a storyteller, and stories are not always limited to written or spoken words. He might not love tattoos himself, but he cares that I like them. These days, my husband pays more attention to people's tattoos in general. Interestingly enough, he's beginning to find them intriguing -- if not attractive. Today he described a tattoo he saw on a woman's shoulder while he and Suzannah were at the park. "It was actually kind of neat," he said. Right now, Matt has at least come to terms with the idea of my getting one (and possibly more), even if he doesn't understand it. I hope -- and even believe -- that someday he'll just see it as a part of me and love it for that. (He must believe it too, or he probably wouldn't have made the gesture of writing in a great little Christmas card, "This card is good for one ankle tattoo.")
My hummingbird will be another piece of a story that is uniquely mine. It would be wonderful if everyone could appreciate it for what it represents to me, but I no longer need anyone else's validation. I think that, at thirty-one, it's time for me to be comfortable in my own skin.
