When I turned 60 a couple of years ago, I had my first tattoo. I wanted to mark the occasion with something more permanent than a party or a cake; something that would remind me of the place I’d reached in my life, celebrating rather than mourning the passing of the years.
I chose a trailing stem of ivy leaves. Evergreen and indestructible, ivy represents both fidelity and eternity – ideas which seemed fitting for my age. As a gardener, I know ivy is a survivor, enduring periods of drought and rain. I also know how hard it is to pull it away from something it’s attached to. It is pretty and hard to kill. Perfect to mark my 60th year.
Some friends asked me why I wanted a tattoo at all, and I realised it was not about wanting to be young, but about wanting to be in control. This was something I was doing to my body rather than having something done to it. The ivy sits wrapped around my arm in the exact spot where a blood pressure cuff is placed, and that’s no coincidence. Doctors, hospitals and “procedures” all loom larger at this age. My tattoo is there to reassure me – this is still my body, I decide what happens to it.
Anyway, that was the idea. On the day I was, of course, terrified and uncertain. The form I signed promised that I had consumed no alcohol or drugs to alter my state of mind, so I kept quiet about the Valium I’d had an hour earlier. Lying down on the bed I drifted off in a blissful haze where no pain or doubt could reach me. “You were so relaxed,” the tattooist said afterwards, “I almost thought you’d fallen asleep there for a while.”
“Mmmm,” I replied.
When I looked at my newly inked arm I was in heaven. It was exactly what I’d wanted – delicate enough to be beautiful, but forceful in the way that only tattoos can be, the ink outline so definite, so obviously permanent. Ah yes, I know that’s the bit that puts people off – the permanence. “What if you regret it?” friends asked, to which I answered: “Well at my age at least I won’t have so long to regret it.”
And anyway, I don’t. Far from regret, what I felt was excitement. I went for a second one quite quickly – a little starburst on my inner wrist, where I could see it more easily. Then a third, and being now a fully paid-up member of the tattoo club, I was more daring, and chose a snake. I don’t really like snakes; I am afraid of them, in fact. By tattooing one on my arm I was trying to co-opt some of its power. “You can’t hurt me, snake,” I was saying, “you are mine now, and you protect me.”
A year passed, during which I restrained myself from having more. A friend turned 60 and I bought her one for her birthday. A week later I was back there myself, and had three little swifts inked across my arm. I’m currently watching them heal, and dabbing on spots of cocoa butter throughout the day.
So, it seems that this is me now. A woman of a certain age, in love with her tattoos. I am reading a new book by Ann Powers called Travelling, which is a kind of biography/exploration of Joni Mitchell. After her chapter on Blue, I played the album as I cooked dinner and those familiar lines leaped out at me:
Blue
Songs are like tattoos
You know I’ve been to sea before
Crown and anchor me…
Hey Blue
There is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
The idea that a song is akin to a tattoo – it’s something that can’t be undone and can get under your skin – is one that I love more than ever. It’s a leap of faith to write a song or have a tattoo. You take a deep breath, commit, and hope you don’t regret. They’re with you forever. Look at me, I’m covered in them.
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This article appears in the 25 Jul 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Special 2024