Danger Eyes

Something I wrote this morning about having tattoos.


I have a postcard with a circa 1940 photograph of a tattooed lady. She probably worked the circus circuit, as there wasn't much else for a tattooed lady to do in that day when it comes to making a living.. The photograph has been tinted. Her dress is lavendar. She has red hair, hard eyes, a straight line for a mouth. She is quiet and powerful. Decorated and coy. Absolutely beautiful.
Fuck fashion magazines. I never wanted to look like a smiling stick. I hung the postcard by my mirror as I moved around over the years. My personal sex symbol, my muse, my ideal woman. She was what I wanted to be.
So I take my beauty and fashion sense from the circus rather than Cosmo. So what.
I had low self esteem like ever other American woman. I hated to look in the mirror.
I got a tattoo. When I looked in the mirror I found it interesting and complimentary. I got another tattoo. And so on.
I was looking in mirrors and seeing beauty there for the first time in my life.
I believed the tattoos made me beautiful.
I got stronger, more confident. My footing on this planet felt more sure, time was giving me a sense of serenity, I found a peace with my reflection.
And then I realized:
These tattoos do not make me beautiful. But they do enhance my beauty.
It has taken me 34 years to utter those words in the same breath: Me, beauty. Beauty, me.
I get stopped often in all kinds of situations by people that want a closer look at my tattoos or they'll have questions they want to ask. I try to be really accomodating and not get irritated by this because I did CHOOSE to put these bright colors and pictures on my body, so to be surprised or flustered or agitated by the situation would be silly on my part.
There is one time when a middle aged woman stopped me outside my doctor's office. She was a fine looking sister with attitude. She said to me, "Why did you do that to yourself? You're a pretty girl and you have a nice figure. Now, I could understand an ugly girl needing the attention and doing that, but why did you do that to yourself, sugar?"
I told her that I thought they were beautiful. Not ugly.
She went on, "But what about when you want to go out, and you want to put that nice dress on. You know the one I am talking about, sugar."
"I just put the dress on and wear it."
We were never going to see eye to eye. Only the girl in the lavendar dress, looking on at me as I put on my make-up and fix my hair, only the tattooed lady from the circus knows how I feel.