I absolutely love shows like LA Ink and despite her fairly atrocious choice in men, Kat Von Dee the Queen of LA body art.
I admire a great tattoo and a tattoo artist. It’s the twits who walk into the studio on a Saturday night and go “Hey, what sort of cool piece can you do to fill up this patch on my arm?” that makes me shudder.
I don’t care how these fashion victims might try to defend their motif of choice. The simple fact is what floats your boat at 15 or even 25 is not going to be the same years down the track.What part of “you’ll be looking at this at 40, 50 or when you’re known as Grandma” are they not getting?
These kids are using their bodies like my mates at their age used to look at their school folders or bedroom walls.
I’m still gobsmacked at a conversation I had last year with a sweet young kid who excitedly told me he was off to Melbourne to get more ink.”Oh,” I said. “What are you going to get?”
“Well, I’m going to get on one knee a drawing of a cup and saucer. And on the other, the words `two sugars please!’ ”
When I enquired as to the symbolic relevance of the image, he said: “Because I like two sugars in my tea”.
Sure, maybe he’d had some sort of premonition at some point that one day he was going to become mute, but c’mon. I love a bit of Macca’s as much as the next person, but am I going to get “a cheeseburger, Diet Coke and a fillet-o-fish” etched into my neck? No, I’m happy to continue to verbally place the order.
There’s a distinctly uncool fact of getting a tattoo by putting as much thought into this as choosing your knickers.
It means one day you will be forced to either look at it each day and be reminded of what a flipping twit you once were, or you can get that piece of skin cut out with a knife.
Or have it burnt off over a period of time.What sort of effect is that going to have on your swagger down the track?