I've always hated tattoos. I've never really understood why people would want one, particularly women. I mean a dragon across your shoulders might be appealing to a rebellious, anti-establishment twenty year old trying to fit in with the rest of the uni crowd, but what about when you're in your thirties or forties, maybe with a partner who attends a lot of executive black tie events; surely your wardrobe will be limited on those occasions? I'm sure there are lots of people out there, who would be outraged if they were reading this and absolutely adamant that tattoos are just another way of expressing your personality and shouldn't stop you wearing whatever you want to, so sorry if I've annoyed you, it was just never for me. Hence why getting a tattoo had to go on the list!
At the beginning of August then I stepped into a tattoo parlour and took the plunge. Well, that wasn't quite all there was to it, I mean I'd done my research first. Thanks to the wonders of the internet I'd discovered that the nearest establishment to where I live had received mixed reviews, with some people saying they were very happy with the service and others saying their tattoos had faded almost immediately. I then looked slightly further afield and checked out two tattoo parlours in the town centre. One was near to where I work and I regularly pass it. The window is not particularly inviting to a middle aged woman, being full of pictures of tattoos with snakes and skulls. Their website didn't increase their appeal as far as I was concerned; I'm sure the tattoo artists were lovely people, but they were all men and all painted from head to toe with similar images to those in the window. The other option was a smaller shop in the oldest part of the town, but checking their Facebook page revealed that the ex-boyfriend of one of my daughters was one of the tattooists. Now don't get me wrong, he was a lovely chap, but I didn't really fancy sharing the site of my proposed tattoo with him or his colleagues. I then looked at other towns in the area and settled on a place in Canterbury. It had good reviews, looked clean and hygienic from the pictures on the website and had a female tattooist.
So back to the start of the month. I nearly chickened out, but I plucked up the courage and entered the premises. The tattooist worked within a beauty salon, where there were various treatments on offer. It was clean and in an upmarket area of the city. The receptionist was very friendly and introduced the tattooist, who was also polite and friendly and immediately put me at my ease. This was where it got interesting, as I explained what I wanted - a two digit number tattooed on my ass, and we're not talking donkey here! She looked a bit unsure at first as she asked what two digit number I wanted. Actually it's just occurred to me what number she might have thought I meant, which would account for the look on her face! Anyway I said it was either 15 or 16, but I wasn't sure. The poor girl's confusion multiplied so I decided to explain about the whole fifty firsts idea and that getting the tattoo was either the fifteenth or sixteenth thing I'd done. Relief flooded over her as she realised it wasn't quite as weird a request as she had obviously initially thought. My youngest daughter, who was with me, and I did a quick count up and decided it would be the fifteenth thing on the list and so the number was chosen. We had a quick discussion about the size and position of the tattoo and the type of font required and then I filled in the consent forms while she got ready for me, because as luck would have it she had an appointment available there and then.
Just before going through to get my tattoo done, the tattooist asked me if I'd like a screen round me. At this point my naivety sprang to the fore - she did her tattooing in a separate room off the reception area, so what would I need a screen for? No, don't worry I say, I've had three children - you lose all your dignity when you're giving birth, so this'll be fine. When I got into the actual room where the tattooing takes place, she introduced me to her partner in crime, a young guy in his early twenties. Aah, now I know why she asked about the screen! Still it was too late for that, so I hitched up my dress, revealed my right buttock and pointed to roughly where I wanted the tattoo, just below the top of my knicker line. She put a sort of transfer onto my skin and then invited me to check the position in front of the mirror. We negotiated moving it down slightly and then it was time to sit on her couch with my ass exposed ready for tattooing. Oh you're thinking, it wasn't so bad then. Well I should point out that throughout this the young guy is talking to me about my tattoo and why I'm having it done. The whole tattoo process was surreal from start to finish: there I am sitting with my buttocks on show whilst someone puts a needle into my skin and then inks over the raw flesh (or something like that - you'll appreciate I couldn't actually see what was happening) whilst the three of us have a perfectly normal conversation about my fifty firsts and my daughter photographs the whole thing to put on Facebook and Twitter. The tattooist explained to her partner why I was having a tattoo and then they wanted to know what I'd done and what I was planning to do. Neither of them fancied skydiving and the young guy suggested stealing a Starbucks mug ought to go on my list; I'll have to think about that. I got the distinct impression that they would spend the rest of the day, if not the week telling their clients about this woman who had 15 tattooed on her bum because it was the fifteenth out of fifty things she was planning to do for the first time to mark her fiftieth birthday.
Anyway, back to the actual tattoo. It took about ten minutes to do and wasn't particularly painful. When it was done it was covered with a piece of clingfilm taped to my skin, which I had to leave on for about 5 hours. I got given after care instructions, which basically involved washing the tattoo fairly vigorously for two minutes three times a day and then applying a particular brand of nappy rash cream. I had to follow this until the skin either scabbed over or peeled like sunburn, which got me a bit worried, as I didn't have any scabbing and it took five days for the skin to peel. I have had no after effects to report. It has healed beautifully and quite quickly and there is no sign of any fading or patchiness of the colour, which was just black, for the record.
I just look like a cow that has been branded! But still, it makes for an interesting story ... now tell me, why do you have the number 15 tattooed on your ass?
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