Tattoo you

I've deleted enough tweets to know that I should never get a tattoo.

— Abby Heugel (@AbbyHasIssues) August 25, 2014

I always swore that I would never get any tattoos.

My mother had four tattoos, one on each forearm and one on each of her upper arms. She got them all at the age of 14, when she was living on the streets, and knew that it made her look tough. And if not tough, then at least rough.

This was 1970 in Australia – this was long before the prevalence of ink caused them to be de rigueur as they are today. Back then, the social mores of the day meant that tattoos were a sure signifier that you were part of a certain underclass of society and were seen on sailors, criminals and knockabouts. They were certainly not commonly seen on women.

An exception to this was Melbourne woman Bev Nicholas, who became known as Cindy Ray, Australia’s original tattooed lady. Bev’s life changed at the age of 19 when, as a single mum in need of work, she answered a newspaper ad for a job as a photographer’s model.

The job was to work for photographer Harry Bartram, who convinced Bev that a life of fame and fortune awaited her if she would be tattooed. Bev didn’t waste time; despite nobody in her family or close group of friends having tattoos, she got four tattoos the first night and was soon described as the “classy lassie with the tattooed chassis”. Bev travelled the country and took part in sideshow tours, showing off her ink.

The fortune didn’t eventuate but she became incredibly well known. Not just for her numerous tattoos, but also for her skills. Bev married Danny Robinson, the man who tattooed her, and ended up learning the trade herself. She still tattoos one day a week in Williamstown in Australia, and is known all over the world.

One thing I find particularly striking about Bev is her reluctance to ever wear short sleeved shirts in order to avoid judgement. My mother was the same; although she had far less ink to show off, she’d been raised to view tattoos as unsightly and knew that it denoted the life she’d lived as a teenager and in her early adult years. She was always keenly aware of the looks she’d receive off the other mothers at school pick-ups if she ever wore anything that left her arms visible.

Bev apparently always wore long-sleeved shirts no matter what the weather as she wanted to avoid upsetting her daughters – some of her daughter’s friends had been banned from associating with their family due to Bev’s ink. It’s incredibly sad but not at all surprising that this kind of judgement occurred. You only have to read the comment section on any mainstream article about the ‘attractiveness’ of tattoos to see how deeply those judgements still run.

Some tattoo art is absolutely stunning – the intricate detail, the gorgeous colours, the unique designs. Some of it is hideous. The only thing that matters is that it’s someone’s choice to mark their body, to go from a ‘cleanskin’ to someone with tattoos. Whether their work is something incredibly meaningful or something, it shouldn’t matter to you. Nor should how they’ll look when they’re older.

My mother cared so much that she tried to have them removed. In the 80s, she had skin grafts taken from the soft, delicate skin of her inner thighs to cover up the forearm tattoos and the doctor botched the job so badly that it looked as though she’d been burnt. I remember stroking her arms when I was a child, running my finger over the different textures, the skin looking as though he’d just haphazardly slapped it on top.

When I got older, I asked her why she did it, why didn’t she just leave them? She just looked at me for a while, and then said softly, “I just didn’t want to make things even harder on you kids.”

So whenever people cast unnecessary judgement for the choices people make in choosing to get their skin inked, I think of my mum. She removed hers for nothing; the judgement was there no matter what, she was different, she was gay, she was wild and infinitely untameable. I loved the ones that remained – the 1970s green ink and old school designs, one side emblazoned with the word ‘Mum’ and the other with the word ‘Nick’, her older brother.

She always told me to never get tattoos, and definitely never on my forearms.

I currently have two tattoos, both on my forearms. Both remind me of her and I’m glad that I get to see them every day.