“Mate, how much is tattoo removal?”
Oh, get rooted. You think I haven’t heard that before? You think that wasn’t the first thing I googled after I saw the atrocity in the mirror of the tattoo parlour, heart plummeting, jaw-dropping?
It was contorted, distorted, too big, too high, too heinous. Already in one of the most controversial spots to get inked.
Don’t get me started on what it looks like from afar – a colossal splodge.
I’d gotten it done on New Year’s Day, feeling dusty but impulsive with two brain cells left banging against each other.
They said tattoo. I said, sure, why not. In fact, make it two.
The first would be a dainty hibiscus flower on my arm, but the second would be the main act. The pièce de resistance if you will… the tramp stamp.
There she is, in all her glory! (Credit: Supplied)
Ohh laa laa, scandalous!! I mean, let’s not forget that lower back tattoos had once been seen as a cute, cheeky, feminine, and fun form of self-expression, body autonomy and empowerment in the early 2000s. Then the media said, “lol yeah nah, we can’t let women enjoy themselves, now can we?” The devil works hard, but the patriarchy works harder.
After years of backlash, of society viewing lower back tatts as trashy, a symbol of promiscuity and empty-headedness, Gen Z has told the patriarchy to respectfully get licked. They’ve reclaimed the tramp stamp, ditching stereotypes and judgements whilst asserting their right to define beauty and identity on their own terms. And I wanted in.
To clarify, it wasn’t the tramp stamp itself that I regretted. It was the design.
See, I remember the hibiscus being wrapped up. Then I remember my head being cradled by the tattoo artist, her assistant patting away my sweat.
“You conked out,” they explained. I was hardly given a second to resurrect before the artist was trying different stencils on my lower back.
I was dazed and confused, trying to explain my vision… and honestly, I don’t do well in hair salons and tattoo parlours to begin with. I go in wanting a trim, I come out with a pink mullet. I go in wanting a butterfly with flames (ingenious, I know lmao) no bigger than a 50-cent coin. Thin lines, subtle, cheeky. I come out with a blinding monstrosity. More of a back piece than a tramp stamp, as a mate generously pointed out. Why do I become so passive in these settings?
The artist was adamant about the tramp stamp being huge, being detailed, being in-your-face. In my weak, foggy state, I eventually lost the willpower to fight this upward battle. I could have gone home. I could have tried harder to collaborate on the design.
But after seeing a stencil that was the best one yet (still pretty bad, obviously), the lone brain cell I had now said just do it, my lips still blue, my face still white. So I did… she’ll be right, right??…
She was not, in fact, alright.
For weeks, it was all I could think about, looming over me, on me, like a spectre of regret. A permanent reminder taunting me of my lapse in judgement, my stupidity, my rashness. My mates gawked at it, cackling, cringing, or saying with a high-pitched tone, “oh, at least the hibiscus is good”.
I kept praying on shooting stars that it’d just disappear. Kept telling people my spiel “I conked out! I wasn’t all there in the head!”
Thankfully, as weeks passed, peoples’ comments started to faze me less. I stopped bothering to wear outfits that hid it. I didn’t try to manifest it miraculously getting smaller during my morning meditations.
After a few beers, I remember seeing the tramp stamp in a pub mirror. I bellowed with laughter. Shaking and gasping for air, tears falling down my face. Oh my god. It was heinous! Beautifully heinous! In that moment, I fell in love with it. My tramp stamp transformed from a symbol of my idiocy to a reminder — it’s not that deep.
How had I lost sleep over this bit of ink? How had I lost sleep over a lot of insignificant things? Specks. I mean, to zoom out even further, I’m just a speck in the grand scheme of things. A speck on a rock floating in space. Nothing matters. Is that not absurd?
And I really don’t mean that in an existential, nihilistic, depressing way, but a freeing way. Tramp stamp or not, we’re all going to end up six feet under. So, who cares?!?!?
My tramp stamp became my superpower. I started going for what I wanted, full throttle. If I saw a cute bloke, I’d approach him. If I wanted a pay rise, I asked. If I was told to rack off, I shrugged.
I picked up hobbies for a laugh. I painted ostensively bad portraits of my friends. I got wiped out by every wave whilst surfing. I wrote the jankiest songs on the guitar with the three chords I knew. I tried stand-up comedy. I acted in a play. I wasn’t interested in striving for perfection anymore. Even my body and appearance, a cause for frustration my whole life, seemed inconsequential. In turn, I started loving it instead, a truly surreal feeling. God, the patriarchy won’t like that.
Every time I see that butterfly with wings, I remember: it’s not that deep. It’s not that deep. It’s. Not. That. Deep.
I’m reminded that I have a choice. I mean, that tramp stamp could have tormented me for the rest of my life (or until I saved up the price of Jesus’ tears to get it removed). Or I could see the absurdity in it, the hilarity. I could have lived a life walking on eggshells, worried to be rejected and judged. Or I could live fiercely, authentically, wildly – chasing fun.
Livin’ laughin’ and lovin’ (that was ironic… but low-key true).
I have become a huge butterfly on flames. Flying away. Not giving a fuck what anyone thinks. Oh, to be free!
Izzy Parker is an aspiring screenwriter who’ll be winning an Oscar soon… or at least that’s what an ayahuasca trip told her. Either way, she’s happy living life for a good story and a laugh. Follow her on Instagram HERE.
