Baby Ink Twice

‘Fashions fade, style is eternal.’ – Yves Saint Laurent

Child cruelty can take many forms. Of that I was reminded whilst on the plane to Spain.  The chap sat in front of me had given his child a classic Chris Waddle haircut.  As if that wasn’t bad enough for the little urchin, his father, who was wearing a vest (this appeared to be for neither aesthetic nor temperature related reasons), had his face, Waddle cut and all, tattooed on his shoulder.  So despite the little oik not being old enough to remember when we had what appeared to be road kill on his head, he will have a permanent reminder courtesy of his Dad’s ink work.

waddle
Give my boy the Waddle

 

I suppose some instant karma is at play in the world though, as the father has now been left with a permanent monstrosity on his shoulder. As tattoos go, this one is horrific.  If fashion is fleeting and style is eternal, tattoos had their moment in the sun eons ago.  Whenever I clap eyes on a tattoo it screams REGRET in big Chinese symbols.  Imagine a world where you are eternally forced to wear combat trousers, a belt with Jesus Saves spelled out in studs, a t-shirt that changes colour when your hot and some charity wrist bands, like some kind of bad fashion groundhog day.  This is effectively your fate when you get inked.

Your bad tattoo is also going to get progressively worse when you get older. Imagine a gimmer with a top knot, a granny wearing a crop top.  That’s what you’re going to look like when you’re shuffling down the street on your zimmer flashing off your saggy sleeve.  Factor in the fact that although some tattoo artists can draw some really good designs, when it is transferred onto skin, it all goes horribly wrong. In much the same way as a big mac can look like an appetising proposition on a billboard but then looks like gastroenteritis when you open the cardboard.

So what to do about that tat? Laser removal is expensive and leaves a scar.  Cover ups have the same effect as when Father Ted tried to hammer out a dent in his car.  There’s nothing else left, you’re stuck with it.  So next time you’re contemplating entering a parlour, to paraphrase Celine Dion, baby (th)ink twice.

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