I am a total daddy’s girl. My dad is the most quietly wonderful person that ever lived. I adore him.
I love him so much I got a tattoo.
It’s a big one, on my right shoulder, of a rose from my dad’s garden. Some people love it, some hate it. Most couldn’t give a monkey’s. My dad thinks I’m an idiot. But then he thinks that anyway (not really, he just has no idea where I came from). He is mostly bemused. He is 84 and can’t understand why a woman would want a tattoo. Anyone other than a old-school sailor, to be honest.
I love it. I’ve had it for three years now and it’s as fresh and bright and gorgeous as the day I got it (four and a half hours of non-stop writhing pain – my tattooist was an artistic genius, but a brutal one; he liked to dig DEEEEP).
I waited until I found the perfect artist, but also ’til my mum was dead, before I finally booked my appointment – I’m not daft, she would have gone crazy nuts (I can feel her angry disappointment from here, from the grave). When my dad first saw my tat he was pretty horrified, he said, “Why would you do that? What about when you’re older?!”. He is such a modest and unassuming man and just couldn’t comprehend that I would want to declare my love for him in as obvious and permanent way as this, writ large on my shoulder for the world to see. But that’s the point. I laughed and said, “Dad – I AM older!”.
“Actually, yeah you are. Fair point”, he said.
But it’s true, I AM older. Although I look like someone in my early 40s (so I’m told), I’m nearly 50 (though I act a lot younger – yeah, I’m immature). Even writing that is so bizarre that it boggles my brain. Really fucks with it. But if it means that I get to have a tattoo and not give a crap, then fine. I’m inked. I’m older. Cheers, dad.