When I’m old, I’m going to have sagging, misshapen, ugly tattoos.
People love to remind me of this. A miserable buffalo, a rotten pear, a little king whose beautiful ermine coat needs ironing.
Typically, it’s someone who doesn’t know me well and with whom I’ve never shared any philosophy about aging, death or even body art, who tells me this.
Although I was only 18 years old when I got my first tattoo, I realized that eventually I would get old.