Ah yes, nothing screams “existential threat to society” quite like a woman with visible tattoos and the audacity to smile in public. Gather round, friends, because it’s time we finally answer the burning question that has plagued philosophers, boomers, and nosy aunties alike: Why do you mind how I look?
Spoiler alert: I still don’t know. But I’m willing to offer up a few theories, served with a generous drizzle of sarcasm and a side of unsolicited sass.
Chapter One: The Tongue Piercing That Caused a Family Drama
Once upon a hormonal teenage year, I got my tongue pierced—at an actual piercing studio, thank you very much. Not in a friend’s bathroom. Not with an ice cube and a prayer. A certified professional put a needle through my tongue while I clutched the armrest like I was giving birth to a new personality. My parents, of course, reacted with all the calm and grace of people discovering their child had joined a Satanic cult. My father, in a moment of cinematic overreaction, threatened to rip it out with pliers, as if we were starring in Reservoir Dogs: The Family Edition. And yet somehow, I was the dramatic one.
Spoiler: I cried. Then I removed it. Character growth? Not quite. Emotional manipulation? Absolutely. But don’t worry—this wasn’t the end. It was merely the beginning of my long-term commitment to permanently pissing off strangers at shopping malls.
Chapter Two: Tattoos – Because I’m a Walking Crime Scene, Apparently
For my eighteenth birthday, I gifted myself a tattoo. A little something to commemorate my transition into adulthood, a legal adult with the power to vote, and apparently—shock elderly people at bus stops.
To me, tattoos are beautiful. They’re art. Stories. Memories etched into skin. But to others, they’re a red flag, a cry for help, or an open invitation for public feedback, as if my shoulder blade is a suggestion box.
Let me be clear: when I got my ink, I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Kristina-from-HR. I was asking for a cute, symbolic design that says, “I survived adolescence with only minor trauma.” Your disapproval is not the hot take you think it is. It’s just background noise.
“What Will People Say?” – The National Anthem of Social Anxiety
Ah yes, the unofficial slogan of every nosy relative and culturally-preserved elder. What will people say?
Here’s a wild concept: I don’t care.
I know. Shocking. I must have missed the orientation where they handed out the rulebook for “living to please your neighbour who once saw you walking home at 8am in glitter and last night’s eyeliner.”
What people say hasn’t stopped billionaires from joyriding into space, so why should it stop me from getting a tattoo of a dragon on my thigh?
“How Will You Look When You’re Old?”
You mean, when I’m living my best life in Birkenstocks, sipping wine at 2pm, and yelling at teenagers for no obvious reason? I’ll look fantastic, thanks for asking. My tattoos will be a colourful roadmap of all the questionable decisions I survived.
“Oh, but your skin will sag!” Sweetheart, everything sags eventually. If we avoided things based on how they’ll look when we’re old, no one would get married, buy matte furniture, or eat cheese after 30.
My wrinkly, tattooed body will be proof that I lived boldly, not just existed like a loaf of unbuttered bread waiting for retirement.
“But Where Will You Work?”
Listen. I’ve had jobs. Fancy ones. I’ve been a journalist, a Key Account Manager (which sounds fake but isn’t), and now I do what I do just fine, tattoos and all. And if my leggings are clean, it’s a bonus. Tattoos have never stopped me from making money.
Ironically, the same people who once warned me I’d never get hired now stay suspiciously quiet whenever careers come up. No follow-up questions, no career advice—just the sweet, sweet sound of their silence.
Live, Let Live, and Maybe Get a Face Tattoo (Just Kidding… Unless?)
I’ve reached a stage where I no longer feel the need to explain, justify, or politely smile while someone compares me to a prison inmate. I like how I look. My husband likes how I look. My cat is indifferent. And that’s the holy trinity of approval right there.
If you don’t like it, that’s okay. Really. There’s enough beige in the world for all of us. But maybe, just maybe, instead of staring disapprovingly at my sleeve tattoo, try focusing on your own spiritual sleeve—of emotional repression and repressed teenage dreams.
And the next time you see someone with purple hair, a nose ring, or tattoos that make you clutch your pearls, try doing something revolutionary: say nothing. Or, if you’re feeling wild, throw out a compliment. “Hey, nice ink!” It’s cheaper than therapy and 78% less likely to start a family argument.
In Conclusion: I’m Not Your Moral Cautionary Tale
If my tattoos are the worst thing about me, you’re not looking hard enough. I shaved my head just to see what would happen, occasionally drink like I’m still in college, and have a talent for turning “just one drink” into a group therapy session. Let’s not pretend ink is the issue here.
I’m not asking to be adored. I’m just asking for the basic human right to look however the hell I want without having to endure unsolicited TED Talks from people whose biggest rebellion was switching from margarine to butter.
So go ahead, judge me. Whisper in the grocery line. Ask if I’ll regret it one day.
But know this: when I’m 85, covered in faded ink, with glitter in my walker basket and a rakija in hand, I’ll be smiling—not because I fit in, but because I didn’t waste my life trying to.
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