I have often been asked what on earth possessed me to start
getting tattoos late into my 30’s. The
answer to that is multifaceted and pretty damn boring. What ultimately matters is why I still
do. There is a life changing element to
my tattoos other than me simply being a “late bloomer”.
I had my first tattoo done at about the same time as I
decided it was time to lose some serious weight. I was in a pretty crappy place in terms of self-confidence
and body image. It’s a small tattoo but
was the start of something much deeper and all encompassing.
Numbers 1, 2 and 3 all have some sort of meaning or
symbolise something special to me (cheesy meanings perhaps, but relevant all
the same). I had numbers 4 and 5 done simply
because I wanted them. And they were beautiful.
And it was good.
After No 1 I realised that people were not joking when they
said this shit is addictive. Less than
year later I was back for No 2. It was
not enough. I wanted bigger and
better.
The reality is though that getting tattoos – by talented artists,
at any rate – is expensive. I saved all
my R5 coins for ages and eventually got No 3.
This one took 7 hours and, as I staggered out of the studio, nauseous
and shaky, I thought maybe I was cured of the addiction. Not so much as it turns out. No’s 4 and 5 followed in rapid succession.
There are two parts of this addiction. One is purely physical. The tightening in my gut when I hear the buzz
of the needle. The surge of adrenalin when
I feel the sharp burning sensation as the needle touches my skin. Even writing this, I feel a tight knot of
anticipation rising inside of me and my breathing becomes laboured.
The other side of this addiction, however is purely
emotional. I am my biggest critic as far
as my physical appearance is concerned.
I have never been a particularly self-confident woman, always hating the
way this wobbled, or that jiggled.
Previously overweight and under-exercised, I decided to change things
and ended up 20 odd kilos lighter and a demon in the gym. All of that, however, means nothing without
my art. My body is now so much more than
flesh, freckles and cellulite. It is a
canvass. There are exquisite points of
interest which I want to show off to the world.
This has not only changed my view of my own body but the way I face
life. Whatever. It’s a fact. I am much more of a confident badass
than ever before. And they make me feel
damn sexy.
“What about when you are old and saggy?”. Think about it for a second – my tigress will
move and stretch and become even more languid and fluid. As she should. My butterflies and flowers will grow and
change and perhaps even droop – as they do in nature – but they will still be
beautiful. My triskele will forever represent
the circle of life and strength of the woman that I keep striving to be.
And one day – far into the future, the angels willing – when
I lie on the slab, I hope that my stories, like bushman art in a cave, will tell
a story worthy of the life I am living.
It is a personal choice.
One I cannot wait to do again.
And again.
But that’s just my opinion.
