All folk on my maternal grandmother's side were gypsies who traveled pre-WW1 Europe chasing the fruit/vegetable harvests and telling tarot cards to make a living. Always on the road they carried their stories/possessions on their skin instead of in their homes (they had none).
Fast-forward to the '80s and me growing up among these faded blue-grey tattoos of my landlocked relatives. At funerals/weddings/weekends, some showed their tattoos and told the toddler me: when I died St Peter would ask to prove ID at The Gates; while the plainskins patted down their now-nude bodies for proof of who they were, my kinfolk told me, they - the gypsies - only needed to point to their tattoos and stroll smiling right in through Heaven's doors.
For a decade the thought of dying plain and ID-less terrified me so much that finally as a (young) teenager I blagged an older cousin's driver's license, faked my way into the town's only tattoo parlour and got my first tattoo.