Oh yes!

My own name in the ‘tramp stamp’ area.

I was 14; I told my mum I wanted a tattoo. My mum has never been against tattoos and piercings and I got many in mid to late teens with her support, my mum was of the mind set “you’re going to do it anyway so I would rather I knew you was being safe”. My mum’s parenting techniques also included reverse psychology and calling my bluff, which worked… sometimes.

Here in the UK you have to be 18 to legally get a tattoo.

So we’re walking along the high street and I ask if I can get a tattoo. She says “On you go, i’ll meet you in the next shop when you’re done”.

I enter the tattoo parlour feeling mildly confident as I looked older than my years and was already getting away with things with an age restriction on. I ask the guy for a tattoo, he agrees but asks for ID. I pretend to look in my bag. “Oh damn! My Mum has my purse, I just left her in the last shop and she’s following me on, she’ll be here in 10 minutes”. He maybe clocked my lie but regardless, he took me through to the chair to get started. I was feeling both shocked and smug.

“So what can I do for you then?”

Oh, didn’t think I would get this far. Oh god. Erm… quick, think!

“My name please”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain”

And that is how I got a tattoo of my own name on my lower back. And no, it’s not there incase I forget my own name.