Tattoos, old age & the cool kids

Seems the topic of tattoos has popped up a lot in the past few days, even before I made the blog about my nickname.

As I work in the boutique I see so many people every day & tattoos seems so common place now. But I can remember when there were still pretty taboo. 20 years ago or so. Now, as I write this, I realize I'm showing my age, but it's still a pretty funny tale.

I got my 1st tattoo at the ripe old age of twenty. To be honest I'd given it a full two years of thought before I committed. That was the day I found out how addicting and beautiful skin art can be. To date I have seven, inducing a fairly large piece on my arm, that was the evolution of my 2nd tattoo. Over the years I have been asked thousands of times about my skin art. Questions like: does it hurt? Why that symbol? How long have you had it? Twenty two years later & I have no regrets. I love my ink and would never think of covering it with clothing or having it removed.

One question that always made me chuckle was: What's going to happen when your old? Do you think you'll still be happy to have your tattoos? Truth be told - if your thinking of that before you've even gotten a tattoo - DON'T GET ONE.

As for my answer to the questions, I never really gave it  much thought until someone provided me with an answer a few years ago.

I was at a beach party, bonfire blazing, stars blinking to their own music overhead. It was a gathering of close friends, nothing big. One of those gatherings where it seems that magic happens as the hands of the clock sweep past midnight. There were guitars being strummed softly, seeming in tune with the palm trees that swayed in the trade wind coming off the ocean. Despite the late hour and probably due to the fire, the sand still retain some warmth as tanned toes burrowed under the surface. The ages ranged from 21 up to 60.

As resumed my place next to the bonfire after a quick walk through the surf, the firelight danced across the large tattoo on my upper left arm, catching the attention of one the older members of the group. She made a comment about regretting never getting a tattoo. I grinned and promptly told her it was NEVER too late. I used my mom as an example. My mom had been 70 when she’d had permanent eyeliner tattooed around her eyes and a beauty mark above her lip. Her tattoo artist had been mine & it had been a special moment for us. I never thought I would have had a bonding moment with my mom with tattoos, but hey, you just never know.

As I gave my example her son chimed in stating he would love if it she got a tattoo. Having several himself, he wanted to share the experience with her. In all honesty he thought it would be so cool. We all smiled, nodding in agreement that if she wanted to get a tattoo she should go ahead with it. Then we fell silent, gazing into the fire, lost in our own thoughts. The son then spoke again to his mother. He said it would be awesome if she had a tattoo because when she was very old and ready for a nursing home – no longer able to talk, she would automatically be assigned to the area with all the other tattooed seniors & wouldn’t have to worry about being alone or bored.

This garnered a general chuckle & a snort from me. The idea had merit! It was a guaranteed way to spend your final days with the so called ‘cool kids’. The mental images that popped into my head had me doubled over in laughter. The first image was of me & several of my dear tattooed friends in electric wheelchairs & scooters raising hell around the corridors of some facility. I could clearly picture the light of delight & devilishness in our eyes as we whooped and hollered our way around the building, our powered chairs & scooters leaving tire treads in the pristine halls as the staff gave chase. Another image was a group of about ten seniors all in one corner, laughing a whooping as they shared their life stories. The stories including some ribald remarks, re-tellings of: This one night….and so much more.

As I laughed I remembered the questions asked to many several times about what I would do about my tattoos when I was old…& I had found my answer. I would enjoy them ‘til my dying day, proudly hanging with the ‘cool kids’.

The birth of nickname

In the past ten & a half years I've been back on the island, a very common question I get is about the name Tattoo/Tatu. I gave it some though and figured it would make a nice little tale to tell, as nicknames are something many of us had, whether we wanted to or not.

I'm not a stranger to nicknames. My first name is Louise and to this day many members of my family still call me Louolou Belle, Loulou or Lou. Out of the 3 only one doesn't make me cringe. At the age of thirty two I picked up a new nickname: Tattoo.

When I first came back to the island, I didn't really know anyone any more. It had been quite a few years since I'd been on the rock and being that this island is a coming & going point for many people, things had changed.I spent my first six months on the island as a bit of a recluse, slowing relearing the lay of the land, as it were. By the end of those six months, I was more than ready to jump back into society & the starting point would be a job.

I applied for a job at one of the local newspapers & I was granted a chance for an interview.  On the morning of my interview I stepped into the building, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the blazing sunshine outside to the greenish hue of the florescent lights. I introduced myself to the receptionist & I was corralled to a broke down office chair & told someone would be with me directly. My eyes strayed around the newsroom, taking in the flurry of activity as several people were talking loudly while others were tapping away furiously at a computer keyboard. The haphazard array cubicles each housed a computer & desk. Most of the furniture seemed run down or second hand. The building itself had a scent to it of newsprint & old coffee. Some sort of cleaning solution had been used in liberal amounts to cover the stale scent, but with little effect.

As I sat in a dilapidated office chair in the waiting area, I tried to think of all the things I would say or what possible questions I would face. I loved working but hated  job interviews. They tended to bring out my inner idiot, with stammering answers and blank looks. I looked down at my clothes and absently smoothed down the front of my sleeveless sun dress, a rare item of clothing in my closet. The reason for my choice of apparel was to reveal several of my tattoos, one of which was rather large. I didn't want my body art to be an issue down the line. I'd had several jobs where it had become an issue in the past. The sun dress had become a useful tool as it reveled enough that there would be no questions later on. All question could be asked right up front.

After a painful twenty minute wait, I was directed to a small office to begin my interview. As I entered the office I was greeted warmly by a tall slim gentleman with wire framed glasses & a warm smile. I firmly shook the hand that was offered by Mr. L before sitting down in front of an massive, cluttered desk, willing myself not to fidget.

What I had expected to be no more than a fifteen minute interview stretched out into four hours. It was one of those wonderful, yet rare instances where two people just clicked. It was as if two old friends had been reunited, without skipping a beat. Throughout the time, Mr.L remarked about my tattoos, expressing an interest in getting one. He made a faux pas at one point of forgetting my name & had casually referred to me as the Tattoed Lady. I wasn't offended, gently reminded him of my name and smiled. At the end of the 'interview' I left the office feeling great, but not sure if I had the job. Mr. L assured me I would hear from him the next day.

The next day, as promised, I received a call I was asked to return to the office. I gladly obliged & was informed I'd gotten a job as a writer for the entertainment supplement. Mr. L then sheepishly admitted he'd forgotten my name again and had kept referring to me as the Tattooed Lady to the staff. I shook my head with a smile & realized that something about the name just felt right. I asked Mr. L what he thought about the by-line: Tattoo. He grinned and agreed it would make for a great conversation. From that moment on, I became Tattoo. It seemed such a simple thing. It made me think to the musician Sting. I'd read somewhere how he'd gotten his name from wearing a striped jumper. He took such a shine to the nickname Sting, that he insisted people call him Sting. The memory had made me giggle as I though surely Tattoo wasn't that far of a stretch.

The next day I had business cards made with the name TATTOO emblazoned across the front. When I answered the phone I answered with: Tattoo. When I introduced myself, I used Tattoo. And it stuck. As I ventured out more it became easier and more natural to introduce myself as Tattoo. In fact I remember being surprised at how easy it had been. It was the perfect icebreaker when I was doing interviews or making new contacts. It became a game for myself & others as many tried to guess my real name & I wouldn't relent. The game continued for quite a few years. To this day there really weren't that many people who knew my real name. Some had suspected, but were unsure. Others were way off base with such guess as Gertrude & Helga, to name a few far fetched guesses.

Today, the name Tattoo is still firmly entrenched in me. I think even after I leave the island the name will continue with me, until another nickname presents itself. :o)