Two years ago, while shaving my 7-year-old daughter Lucy’s hair in our master bathroom, she asked, “Do tattoos hurt?” I was in my gym shorts and without a shirt, while Lucy was perched on a step stool in her pajamas. This was the first time she had ever inquired about the tattoos on my body.
I have three tattoos: one on each shoulder and another on my right calf — a blue sun, an abstract face with headphones linked to a bomb from my favorite punk album, and (regrettably) the Grim Reaper. When Lucy was just two, I remember sitting in the living room, a towel wrapped around my waist after a shower. She stood beside me, her little face level with my shoulder, reached out, and touched one of my tattoos, gazing at it with innocent curiosity. At that moment, I realized that this conversation was inevitable.
My first tattoo was the Grim Reaper, inked when I was 19. I vividly remember showing it to my mom, who was overwhelmed with emotion. “Do you know how hard I worked for that body?” she exclaimed, tears in her eyes. Back then, I thought she was being melodramatic and overly conservative. But now, when I glance at my tattoos, I’m reminded of a past filled with sorrow. The Grim Reaper signifies my father’s death and evokes memories of an anxious, depressed teenager obsessed with underground punk bands.
At 19, the permanence of tattoos didn’t seem daunting. I once heard a psychologist discuss how people envision their future selves, usually picturing a version of themselves that is just older and a bit heavier. In hindsight, I can see how much I have evolved. Now, my tattoos feel like remnants of a rebellious youth that no longer aligns with the man I’ve become — a father of three in my thirties working at a university.
That’s the challenging aspect of tattoos. Many individuals cherish their ink as tokens of joy, celebrating significant moments like a child’s birth or a fantastic trip. For me, however, my tattoos serve as reminders of my past struggles. Most people get inked during their carefree youth, but as life progresses and they mature, those symbols can become burdensome reminders of a former self.
Like most parents, I hope for a brighter future for my children. I want them to avoid the mistakes I made and not carry the weight of past regrets. So, I told Lucy, “Yes, tattoos can hurt.”
“Why?” she asked.
As I continued to cut her hair, I explained that a tattoo needle works similarly to the clippers — moving side to side but also pushing ink into the skin. “It doesn’t hurt much at first, but after a while, it can sting,” I said.
“Will they ever go away?” she inquired.
“I could get them removed, but that’s costly and time-consuming. So, they’re likely with me for life,” I replied. Lucy’s eyes widened, conveying her understanding that “forever” is a long commitment.
“Someday, your friends might want to get tattoos, and they may encourage you to join them. That happened to me,” I cautioned. “I don’t like my tattoos, and in many ways, I regret them. They feel like a shirt I can’t remove. Every year, they fade and feel more outdated, yet they remain. I didn’t consider any of this at 19.”
“19 is kind of old,” Lucy remarked, causing me to chuckle.
“I thought so too back then,” I replied. As I resumed cutting her hair, I noticed her soft skin, so perfect and unmarked. I understood my mother’s tears now; she wanted to shield me from regret, just as I want to protect Lucy.
“Does that make sense?” I asked.
“Not really,” she replied, half of her hair cut and a puzzled look on her face.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m still figuring it out myself.”