I got my first tattoo at 67. Here's what I learned as a geriatric tattoo virgin
When I look at my embellished leg, I see proof that growing old isn’t a predictable paint-by-numbers template
This is a First Person column by Lynn A. Farquhar, who lives in Greater Madawaska, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
In 1974, when I was an insufferable 16-year-old, I told my mother that I'd decided to get a tattoo of a rose. I was planning, I said, to have it placed on my breast.
To be honest, it was never a plan. Rather, it was an opening shot in the ongoing battle of wills between my mother and me. The threat of a tattoo was an in-your-face reminder that I had the autonomy to make terrible decisions I could regret and she would feel helpless to stop.
To her credit, my mother didn't react with the histrionics I'd been hoping for. In fact, she didn't even look up from the crossword puzzle in her lap.
From her armchair, speaking with perfect sangfroid, she said, "Rose tattoo on your breast? As you grow older, it's going to become a long-stemmed rose."
It would be almost 50 years before I'd tentatively return to the idea of getting a tattoo. The inspiration came from my daughter, who had begun to accumulate a small gallery on her skin. Her first two tattoos were amateur pieces, discreetly placed on her ankle and back.
I couldn't hide my dismay when I saw them, which, come to think of it, was probably the desired effect. Despite my whim to get a tattoo at age 16, I felt differently when it came to my daughter. To my eyes, she was perfect. To my eyes, her tattoos were like graffiti, impulsively thrown up against a pristine wall.
Her next two tattoos were applied in parlours by artists. The quality of the designs and line work was impressive. The one on my daughter's hip especially caught my attention.
When I asked her why she'd chosen to put it there, she replied, "It's a part of my body I've disliked. The tattoo makes it beautiful to me."
The emotional logic of this statement stuck. I could relate to feeling disgust for a certain part of my own body. For me, it was my right leg.
From the time of my first pregnancy, at age 24, my calf had been blemished by spider veins: damaged blood vessels that lurk just beneath the skin.
Although harmless, they can be as distressing as any other dermatological condition, such as acne. My spider veins took on the form of blue and red amoebae, expansive webs or dense bruises.
Over the years, I spent many hundreds of dollars on sclerotherapy, playing a game of whack-a-mole with the culprit veins. A physician would inject them with an irritant that made them disappear.
But no sooner would they fade than another batch would spring to vibrant life nearby. Eventually, they were joined by a thick varicose vein, which twisted down the inside of my leg like a sea serpent.
In despair, and now in my 60s, I consulted surgeons. It occurred to me that perhaps having the varicose vein removed would be the equivalent of slaying a monster and her evil spawn. The first surgeon I spoke with encouraged this fantasy. He offered — for a fee of nearly $7,000 — to go in wielding a scalpel. The second surgeon, to his credit, gave me a reality check: no matter what I did, new spider veins would continue to appear. Having fought the losing battle for decades, I knew his prognosis was likely correct.
It was then that I contacted a woman in Hamilton whose tattoo work struck me as being exceptional. She agreed to cover the calf on my right leg, where my skin had come to resemble the spider-like terrain of Mars. Her work would take approximately four hours.
I booked the date and steeled myself. As my daughter drove me to the location, I felt much the way I had en route to the oral defence of my doctoral dissertation: dizzy, giddy and filled with nervous dread.
I also felt a bit embarrassed. At 67, with inkless skin and grey hair tucked behind my hearing aids, I'd stand out as a geriatric tattoo virgin. I had no hope of blending in with the other clients.
At the end of my long tattoo session, my daughter reported that people in the waiting room had referred to me as a "badass."
As an introverted, apple-pie baking, bookish academic, I find this designation puzzling. Am I truly a badass? Far from it. Vain? Certainly. Peculiar? Well, maybe a little quirky. More accurately, I think I could be described as someone who quietly flips the bird at ageist stereotypes. When I look at my embellished leg, I see proof that growing old isn't a predictable paint-by-numbers template.
Rather, it's an inviting blank canvas. When I look at my embellished leg, I also see something lovely — something that I chose — instead of a stretch of erratically marred skin.
Before I went into the tattoo parlour, my daughter had warned me that tattoos are addictive. I'd laughed this off. Surely my ink would be a one-and-done event.
But even before the end of my session, face down on the table, I was planning my next tattoo.
Perhaps I can get a cross on my wrist or a Canadian flag on my shoulder. Or maybe, in commemoration of the true badass — my unflappable mother — I'll finally get that rose.
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