A Short Foray Into Badass-erie

Brace yourselves friends: you may have thought you knew me, but little do you know- you have been fraternizing with a badass.

Just kidding.

But do brace yourselves for a tale of my short foray into badass-erie (let it be known that it lasted for one afternoon).

A tale of my one and only tattoo.

I’ve always hoped that I could be a little badass. When I went to study for a semester in England a few years ago, I had a realization: Nobody knew me in England. I could clean the slate and be whoever I wanted to be. I could be the cool girl: nonchalant, laissez-faire. You name it, I was going to be it.

This dream ended when I had another realization: pretending is HARD. Especially when you truly like the people you’re with. Even if I thought I was being said cool girl, one of my best friends in England later said something along the lines of “I knew you were dorky as soon as you said you’re from Canada.”

Hah! I later showed my true colours even more when I dusted off my dance moves.

Anyways, there was one bucket list item I wanted to do while I was in Europe: get a tattoo. This always felt far too rebellious to do back in Canada.

With my sister planning to come visit me, I filled her in on the scheme. She was going to come with me to get a tattoo in London, and we were NOT to tell mom.

When the time came, it almost felt like we were breaking the law. We mischievously snickered as we researched (with the help of my sisters very tattooed friends), sourced out, and visited a few tattoo shops.

We ended up decided on the “Shall Adore” on the east end of London (which in my mind sounded like a dramatic Englishman announcing the name of a castle: behold! The SHALADORE).

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Although the tattoo I wanted, “Have Heart” in typewriter lettering is far from badass, I was feeling the adrenaline.

Little did I know, my tattoo choice WAS badass. When I told the guy at the front desk what I wanted, he got a guy out from the back who asked us “Have Heart? Like the metal band?!”. While I definitely did not base my decision on that band (he assured me it wasn’t a neo-Nazis band or anything), I was feeling cooler by the minute.

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When it came down to getting the tattoo, the artist in charge of walk-ins that day informed us he was “Igor from Latvia” in an epic accent I’ve wished I could replicate ever since.

He got the stencil on me easy peasy, and I asked my sister to double check to make sure it looked good. I got a reassuring comment from Igor stating “Yes, double check. English isn’t my first language”. If that comment doesn’t scream confidence, I don’t know what does!

When all was said and done, I got the tattoo, it turned out just great, and my sister and I got to bond over my brief rebellion.

This is always one of my favorite memories when I think back to that trip. Every tattoo tells a story, mine happens to be about the sequence of events more so than the tattoo meaning. This is an ode to me, for me to look back and have a snicker at myself.

Note: the scolding I got from my mom when she found out was a far cry from badass. I have the video to cringe at thanks to my oh so nice (other) sister.

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