MORNING CALM TALES From taboo to trendy: Korea's slow proliferation of tattoos

A tattoo seen in public in Korea in 2006 / Korea Times file

By Jeffrey Miller

• Published Sep 29, 2025 6:01 PM KST
• Updated Nov 23, 2025 8:50 PM KST

When I first arrived in Korea in the early 1990s, tattoos were about as rare as a white tiger — and nearly as misunderstood. You might catch a glimpse of one on a U.S. serviceman in Itaewon or see the telltale ink of a gang member hanging around a bar or street corner. In 1990s Korea, tattoos weren’t just frowned upon — they were viewed as antisocial, criminal and culturally offensive, a visible rebellion against the status quo.

At the time, I was the proud owner of three faded service tattoos from my Air Force days in Panama. I made no effort to hide them — especially the one on my forearm: a blurry airplane propeller with “USAF” scrawled above it. I vaguely recall getting it during a night fueled by Ron Cortez rum (in the form of Cuba libres), Cerveza Panamá and the invincibility that only young men and the military can produce.

Despite the cultural taboo, no one ever told me to cover them up. Perhaps my students assumed tattoos were just part of the standard foreign teacher package. If they were alarmed, they kept it to themselves — out of politeness, curiosity or perhaps a little fear.

Tattoos in Korea were strongly associated with organized crime. I once read a story in one of the English-language dailies about a gang member being chased out of a public sauna, his tattoos apparently too scandalous for communal steam.

I also learned that only licensed medical doctors were legally allowed to give tattoos in Korea. In the 1990s, getting a tattoo in Korea was risky — you had to know where to look and who to trust.

Then in 1997, during a vacation in Bangkok, I wandered into a tattoo parlor tucked inside a shopping mall and, on a whim, asked if they could cover up the old forearm piece. For 20 years it had haunted me—sloppily inked, faded by time and tied to a version of myself I didn’t quite recognize anymore. I asked the artist to erase it.

Three hours later, I walked out with a rose and a dagger in its place. Symbolic? Maybe. Therapeutic? Absolutely. Painful? Surprisingly, not really.

You see, tattooing had changed since the mid-'70s. When I got my first tat in that hole-in-the-wall shop in Panama City, a car battery powered the tattoo gun, the artist drew freehand with a toothpick dipped in ink and sterilization involved rubbing alcohol and a Zippo lighter. Who knew how many times that needle had been used that night, that week, that month? The real miracle wasn’t that I got tattooed — it’s that I didn’t walk away with hepatitis. Or tetanus. Or both.

But the industry had evolved. The equipment was modern. The needle was single-use. The artist wore gloves. I almost missed the reckless charm of the old days. Almost.

From that moment on, I was hooked. Tattoos became my mid-life hobby. That one cover-up led to another piece. And then another. Before long, I had enough ink to make Dennis Rodman envious.

Of course, the more ink I got, the more I had to adapt to Korean social expectations. Shorts in the summer? Not unless I wanted to cause a minor public disturbance. Trips to the sauna? Always a gamble. More than once, I caught the side-eye of older men who looked like they were weighing whether to report me to the police or just move to another hot tub. I suspect being a foreigner gave me a pass. A sort of “he doesn’t know any better” allowance that I leaned into with the enthusiasm of a man who definitely did know better — but just didn’t care.

Likewise, in the classroom it got harder to keep them hidden. Now and then, while reaching across the blackboard, a bit of ink would slip into view. The students, of course, noticed, and occasionally one would ask me about it. I always downplayed it with a shrug or a vague reply. After all, discretion is the better part of valor.

Once in a while, I’d spot a young Korean with a tattoo — usually an artist, a musician, someone who moved just outside the lines of mainstream culture. We’d eye each other’s ink with silent acknowledgment. A slight nod. No words needed. Just two tattooed souls crossing paths in a society that hadn’t yet decided what to make of us.

And then one day, the tide turned — not with a crash, but with a quiet certainty. Ink moved from taboo to trend, from shame to statement.

Today, Korea is no longer the tattoo-free zone it once was. Ink is everywhere — on K-pop idols and influencers, on baristas, housewives and university students. What was once hidden is now flaunted, etched into the evolving identity of a younger, more expressive generation.

While my tattoos still earn the occasional raised eyebrow at the jjimjilbang, I no longer feel like the outlier I once was. If anything, I’m part of the tattoo old guard now. One of the originals. A relic of the pre-trendy tattoo era.

Still, before tattoos became fully mainstream in Korea, I took it a step further — proving that a little good ink can go a long way.

In 2006, I flew to Bangkok for the first Jimmy Wong World Tattoo Arts Festival. Jimmy was a legend in the Thai tattoo world, and by then, I’d become one of his regular clients. That weekend, I won first prize for best tattoo. The award was handed to me by the lead singer of Thai pop group China Dolls, and I even got interviewed by the BBC. I flew back to Seoul, and on Monday morning I was back in the classroom like nothing had happened.

Just another day in the Land of the Morning Calm, proving that some stories are meant to be worn.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.