Six Reasons For Not Getting A Tattoo

By Bud Wilkinson

Packed in suitcase that’s stowed somewhere in my house is a leisure suit from the ’70s. It’s lemon yellow in color, made of polyester and in such good condition that it could be placed on a mannequin and sold as new. It belonged to my long-dead father. He bought it, I’m sure, to look stylish when he and his buddies made one of their regular golfing pilgrimages to Las Vegas or the Bahamas.

For those too young to recall the leisure suit, it was a short-lived fashion fad of the disco era; a casual suit with a shirt-like jacket and matching trousers that was worn with an open-neck shirt. While the leisure suit was once, if briefly, a fashion statement, today it looks just silly.

I sometimes think of Dad’s canary outfit when I see a tattoo on someone, especially one that covers a lot of skin. One example is the distracting upper body clutter displayed by Danielle Colby Cushman on the TV show “American Pickers.” Are those footprints stenciled across her upper chest?

Mike Wolfe, Danielle Colby Cushman and Frank Fritz of “American Pickers”

Maybe my age is showing, but such displays make me go “Ewww.” Danielle’s tattoo patch certainly draws my eyes away from her pretty face. And, being a red-blooded guy whose eyes are naturally drawn to a woman’s chest, Danielle’s skin stains also take my eyes away from her hooters. That’s just not right.

Chalk it up to my upbringing. My mother had only two firm rules when I was growing up; prohibitions that stuck with me well into adulthood: “You’re not getting a motorcycle; you’ll kill yourself” and “You’re not getting a tattoo; you’re not going to desecrate your body.” I listened. It wasn’t until the fall of 2004 – and 22 years after her death – that I finally bought a motorcycle. It was one of the best decisions of my life.

Knowing my mother, a fun-loving sort, I suspect that if she were alive today, she’d throw caution to the wind, strap on a helmet and ride pillion. Even at age 91. I also suspect that she’d be just as steadfast in her disapproval of tattoos. Her abhorrence back then of so-called “body art” was partly snob-based, a belief that only “white trash” get inked, but she also felt that each person is unique and that such branding devalues the person.

Admittedly, years have passed and times have changed. Whereas once it was only hard-core bikers (or bike builders like Paul Teutel Sr., pictured at left) and sailors who wore tattoos, that’s no longer true. IBM executives have them. “Tramp stamps” are as common as cupcakes. But societal acceptance doesn’t make them attractive or potentially anything more than the modern-day equivalent of the leisure suit.

Because of mom’s admonition against tattoos, I’ve never gotten one (or two or ten) and never been tempted, despite some drunken nights when I’ve done incredibly stupid things. I’ve also never gotten one for the following reasons:

– Tattoos aren’t art and my body isn’t a canvas. They’re graffiti. Yes, there are talented tattoo artists but most tattoos aren’t museum-worthy. Some wouldn’t qualify for a bulletin board in a first grade class.

– Only weaklings succumb to peer pressure. Mom also used to say words to the effect, “If so-and-so jumped off a bridge, would you?” Her point was that it’s not necessary to go along with the crowd and that it’s often unwise to do so. How many people have gotten tattoos because friends were or because friends pushed them, and regretted it later? If you don’t get one, you don’t have to worry about later regret.

–  I want people to pay attention to me and too look me in the eye in conversation. Hieroglyphics on a bicep or, in the case of Danielle, a collar of color draws attention away. A tattoo makes you less of an individual, not more.

– I want people to take me seriously. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I just can’t take someone splattered with tats as being as professional or competent; just silly, like a leisure suit. I guess my mom’s snobbishness has been passed down.

– Tastes change. I confess that I once owned not one but two leisure suits, back in the ’70s, but I’d never buy one today and certainly wouldn’t wear one. I wouldn’t wear bell-bottom jeans, either. I do wish that I had enough hair for a Beatle haircut. The point is that fads come and go. What seems right and proper one day can inevitably seem very wrong somewhere down the road.

– I don’t want to be in a nursing home someday, look at an ink blob buried in dried, sagging flesh and wonder, “What did that used to be?”

As much as it bugs me to say it, mom was right to steer me away from tattoos. And just as right at the time to warn me off of motorcycles. I would have killed myself.