I recall the first time I ever saw a tattoo on a woman. It was about thirty years ago, at a combination flea market and auction. The tattoo was a colorful snake draped over her leathery shoulder and back. I remember being stunned by it, feeling as youâ??d feel if you rounded the corner of a handsome old courthouse and found its back had been scrawled over by thirty feet of painted gangland tags.
I had seen tattoos before that, on men. Most of those fell into two or three categories: the Popeye anchor on the biceps; the name of the manâ??s best girl, which was sometimes Ma; or some insignia related to the armed services. They were modest, and they marked the man out as belonging to the working class. Most of them were a dull inky blue or green. They werenâ??t attractive, but the defacement was minimal.
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