Tattoo or not Tattoo, That is the Question

Like Trump and Brexit, opinions on tattoos are normally pretty binary; you either love them or hate them. I have to confess to being quite partial to an earthy inked-up hipster type. The kind of man who frequents Shoreditch House draped in silver jewellery and has cryptic messages scrawled all over his body is hard for me to resist. In the back of my mind though, I’m always wondering how his look will translate into my non-trendy more conventional daily grind.

Despite my superficial appreciation of men with tatts, I have never really dated one. The closest I got was a drink with an old friend who I always secretly fancied - I’m not sure the feeling was mutual - but quasi-date or not, I was flattered to think he’d asked me out. Indeed, when I told a friend she looked at me incredulously; “Wow, he only dates models”. I wasn’t entirely sure if this was meant as a backhanded compliment - I think what she was really trying to say was: “Why on earth did he ask you out?” I’ll put it down to jealousy.

His body art consisted of a half ‘sleeve’ which was mostly covered by a slightly worn-out but expensive looking T-shirt and always styled with skinny jeans and a massive helping of nonchalance. He was incredibly cool. I felt slightly nervous in his presence but managed to keep my cool, even if I didn’t look it. When he removed his jacket, I was surprised to see that in the months since I’d last seen him, the half illustrated arm had multiplied into a full-blown, down to the wrist, technicolour mishmash of skulls, roses and goodness knows what. It was distractingly intricate, and despite belonging to a very eligible bachelor, it was too much for me.

My lack of model credentials meant that I never had to give any serious thought to how the arm would look when he was old and infirm, still as my friend reminded me; I was lucky to have even gone for a drink with the guy! Fast forward to present day, and tattoos seem to be quite the badge of honour on dating apps; if you could use it as a filter you’d remove at least half of the men on there – and those are of course the men with visible inkage. Perhaps I’m too fussy, but anyone who has a higher ratio of ink to skin gets swiped straight to the left without a second thought.

There are also those with secret tattoos and I have to confess to being part of this gang. I have two small, inoffensive, easily concealed, pieces of body art. My friend uses one of them as a visual warning to his eighteen-year-old twins; he thinks it’s the perfect example of a tramp-stamp. We all make mistakes, and yes – given a magic wand – I would erase the ‘too young to know better’ eyesore, but I could live with it. What I couldn’t live with, however, was a man with another woman’s name permanently imprinted on his body.

I had been texting a particularly handsome man of Portuguese origin; when a man seems too good to be true, he normally is, but I couldn’t work out what the catch was. I hadn’t actually met him yet, but on the small screen he looked like an Hispanic Marlon Brando, he was also the owner of a very splendid pair of eyebrows. We engaged in some harmless flirting and somehow the topic of tattoos came up which resulted in a ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’ situation.

Well, as soon as that photograph landed in my inbox it was game over. I am not one to judge others’ tattoo blunders given the questionable Chinese symbol defiling my otherwise unblemished stomach, but this one was hard to absolve. I could just about make out the name Maria in spidery spiralling italics; it wasn’t so much the tattoo itself that disturbed me; more the location. It was dangerously close to his nether regions and in order to have a proper eyeful of the offending font the image that greeted me was borderline full-fontal (pun intended).

I don’t think I need explain the implications of having an ex’s name written down there, but that wasn’t even the worst discovery in this tacky tattoo tale. Before I could even question who the lucky woman was, the photo was quickly followed by a postscript: It’s my daughter’s name. Now, that can mean only one of two possibilities, he’s either a liar or he’s deeply, deeply odd. Getting to the root of the matter, I cannot think of any reason why a man would willingly write his daughter’s name above his piston. Not one. Not ever.

And with that, I promptly went about a full digital delete, my phone is now cleansed, but that image will haunt me forever. Maybe my tattoos aren’t so bad after all.