I got my first tattoo because I wanted to know what it was like to get a tattoo. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to do it and went on my own. I didn’t particularly like the design they’d done for me, but because I am well brought up I said nothing and just let them do it. When it was done, the tattoo artist said, “There we go – marked for life.” It was then that I panicked. I hated it until my boyfriend said he thought it was sort of slutty and hot and then I loved it. It’s a tramp stamp. ‘Fine, but never again,’ I thought.
A friend came with me the second time. They drew the shape on my wrist and said what did I think. I said fine and about a minute later, it was done. They looked at my friend and said, “What about you?” and she said, “Go on, then,” and got the same one done. Then we both had such a huge adrenaline rush that we became hysterical and had to rush off for a stiff drink. The next day though, I woke up and mine had turned into a splodge of ink under the tape and I rushed to the tattoo parlour shouting, “It’s gone wrong!” The tattoo artist, barely blinking, took the tape off – and most of the splodge with it. Now I love it. Very easily influenced, that’s my blessing in life.
There’s something a bit reckless about people with tattoos that I enjoy. It’s such a weird thing to do, suggesting unpredictability and carelessness. Basically what it feels like to be a teenager. And while some of the results might make Michelangelo turn in his grave, they are always a point of conversation and you can never underestimate the value of that.