Two years back, I was buzzing my 7-year-old’s hair in the bathroom when he casually asked, “Do tattoos hurt?” There I was in gym shorts, no shirt, while little Max perched on a stool in his undies. This was the first time he’d inquired about my ink.
I’ve got a couple on my shoulders and one on my right calf—a blue sun, an abstract face with headphones linked to a bomb from my favorite punk album, and (unfortunately) the Grim Reaper. I remember vividly when Max was just two, standing beside me on the arm of the couch, his tiny face level with my shoulder. He reached out and touched one of my tattoos, leaning in with curiosity. It was clear he noticed my skin was a bit more colorful than his. I knew then that these questions would come up.
My first tattoo was that Grim Reaper, done at 19. When I revealed it to my mom, she burst into tears. “Do you know how hard I worked for that body?” she lamented. I thought she was being overly dramatic and conservative. But now, looking at my tattoos, I’m reminded of a time when I was deeply unhappy. They bring back memories of my father’s death (hence the Grim Reaper) and an anxious, troubled teen obsessed with punk music that’s long faded into the background.
When I got my tattoos, the concept of “forever” didn’t seem daunting. I once listened to a psychologist’s TED Talk about how people envision their futures. Many assume they’ll remain fundamentally the same, just older and a bit rounder. Yet, when reflecting on the past, they can see how they’ve grown. Now, my tattoos serve as reminders of a rebellious phase that feels so out of sync with the dad I’ve become in my 30s.
That’s the tricky part about tattoos. Many folks cherish theirs as tokens of joyful moments—like the birth of a child or an adventurous trip. But for me, it’s different. I didn’t get my tattoos during happy times; I got them when I was lost, and now they’re like reminders of choices I wish I hadn’t made.
Like most parents, I want my kids to do better than I did. I want them to avoid the regrets I have, to steer clear of reminders of tough times that come with certain decisions.
“Yes,” I replied to Max, “tattoos can hurt.”
“Why?” he asked, still wide-eyed.
As I continued with the clippers, I explained how tattoo needles work—pushing ink into the skin, kind of like how these clippers buzz back and forth. “At first, it doesn’t hurt too much, but after a while, it can sting.”
“Will they ever go away?” he wanted to know.
“I could get them removed, but that costs money we don’t have. So, they’re probably here to stay.” His eyes widened—“Forever is a long time,” he seemed to say.
“Yeah,” I said. “As long as I’m alive. Just so you know, Max, one day your friends will likely want tattoos. They’ll try to convince you to get one too. That’s what happened to me. I want you to know that I don’t like my tattoos. I regret them. Sometimes it feels like I’m wearing a shirt I can’t take off. They’re fading and becoming outdated, but they’ll always be part of me. Getting them removed feels like an expense I can’t manage now that I have a family. I didn’t think of any of this at 19.”
“19 is kind of old,” Max replied, and I laughed, “Yeah, I thought so too.”
He looked a bit puzzled but still engaged, so I pressed on. “I want you to know I’ll always love you. If you come home one day with tattoos, you’ll still be my son. But I hope you don’t get them—not because I think they’re wrong, but I don’t want you to feel the same regrets I do.” Then, considering what I wanted for him, I added, “But if you do decide to get one, make sure it’s for something happy.”
Max fell silent for a moment. I resumed cutting his hair, glancing at his delicate little body. I placed my hand on his soft skin and thought about my mom’s tears when she saw my tattoo. She wanted to protect me from scars, keep me as that perfect, innocent boy, just like Max. For the first time, I understood her pain.
“Does all this make sense?” I asked.
Max looked up at me, half his hair cut, and said, “Not really.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m still figuring it out myself.”
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In summary, as a parent, my tattoos serve as reminders of youthful decisions I regret. I want my children to learn from my experiences and embrace life with joy, avoiding the pitfalls I encountered.