Getting inked

I have always wanted to get a tattoo. The art embedded right under the skin entices me, with the body looking like a walking canvass.  Most of my family will not agree with me; they will always see these things as dirty and inappropriate.  But I’m happy to not agree with them.  I find tattooing painfully beautiful.

I didn’t think that my first one would be in memory of my father.  I never really thought I would ever admit to getting one, given that opinion my family has when it comes to skin art, so I got the tattoo in secret.  It wasn’t until three or four months in did I let my mother see it.  (Yes, it freaked her out.)

I am not here to change their opinion on things.  Some things don’t change and it’s easier to accept that instead of forcing your views.  But I do want a more factual approach to tattooing.  Thankfully, someone from the National Post already did that.

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For me, it will always be emotional.  I will always look for the next image or phrase to be on me and I’ll carry it all my life and I would be proud because to me, it will always mean something.  And that doesn’t necessarily have to mean the same thing to other people.

I’ve had looks thrown at me in the office when the swallow peeks slightly above my collar.  I get it; you don’t understand why.  And I respect that you don’t understand as much as I do.  But that is not a cue for you to expect that I need to explain myself to you.

Because, in my opinion, those who ask for an explanation do not deserve it and those who do won’t demand for it.

And I’m blessed because now, my family, though they staunchly disagree, no longer need any explaining from me.

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