Two years ago, while I was giving my 7-year-old son, Leo, a haircut in our bathroom, he asked me, “Do tattoos hurt?” I was casually dressed in gym shorts, and Leo was perched on a stool in his underwear. This was the first time he had inquired about the tattoos that adorn my body.
I have a few tattoos: one on each shoulder and another on my right calf—a vibrant sun, an abstract face with headphones connected to a bomb from my favorite punk album, and, regrettably, the Grim Reaper. I remember when Leo was just two years old. After a shower, I sat in the living room with a towel wrapped around my waist. He climbed onto the arm of the sofa and touched one of my tattoos, his tiny face curious as he studied the colorful designs on my skin compared to his own. At that moment, I realized this conversation about tattoos would inevitably arise.
My first tattoo, the Grim Reaper, was inked when I was 19 years old. When I revealed it to my mother, she burst into tears, lamenting the hard work she had put into her own body. I dismissed her reaction as overblown and conservative. However, now, each tattoo serves as a reminder of a tumultuous time in my life, the pain of losing my father, and the struggles I faced as a troubled teen obsessed with underground punk music.
When I got my tattoos, the permanence didn’t seem daunting. A TED Talk I once heard discussed how people envision their future selves, often thinking they will remain fundamentally unchanged except for a few minor signs of aging. In hindsight, I can see how much I’ve grown and evolved. My tattoos now feel like relics of a rebellious youth, starkly contrasting with my current life as a 30-something father of three who works at a university.
This is perhaps the most challenging aspect of having tattoos. While many cherish theirs as symbols of joyful memories—like the birth of a child or a carefree adventure—my experience is different. I got my tattoos during a time of recklessness and change, and now I’m left with reminders of who I was, not who I aspire to be.
As a parent, I want my children to surpass my past mistakes. I don’t want them to face the same regrets I do, nor do I want them to carry reminders of painful moments.
“Yes,” I told Leo, “getting a tattoo can hurt.”
“Why?” he asked, still intrigued.
As I continued to cut his hair, I explained that a tattoo needle works similarly to the clippers, moving up and down to push ink into the skin. “It doesn’t hurt much at first, but after a few hours, it can sting quite a bit.”
“Will they ever go away?” he inquired, his eyes widening at the thought of permanence.
“Removal is an option, but it’s costly, and we can’t afford that right now. So likely, they’ll be with me for life.”
Leo’s expression conveyed that “forever” was a daunting concept. “Yeah,” I added. “One day, your friends might decide to get tattoos, and they may encourage you to do the same. I want you to know that I don’t like mine. In many ways, I regret them. They feel like a shirt I can’t take off—fading but always present. Removing them seems like a luxury I can’t afford now that I have a family. I didn’t think about any of this when I was 19.”
“19 is kind of old,” Leo observed, and I chuckled, remembering my youthful perspective.
“Just know that I will always love you, no matter what. If you choose to get tattoos one day, you’ll still be my son. I just hope you reconsider, not because I think it’s wrong, but because I don’t want you to carry the same regrets I have.” I paused, reflecting on my hopes for Leo. “But if you do decide to get them, make sure they symbolize something positive in your life.”
Leo was quiet for a moment as I continued cutting his hair. I gazed at his flawless skin and soft features, realizing how much my mother must have wanted to protect me from the same mistakes I made. For the first time, I understood her tears when I got my tattoo.
“Does all of this make sense?” I asked him.
He looked up, half his hair cut, and replied, “Not really.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m still figuring it out myself.”
In reflecting on my tattoos and their implications, I recognize the importance of guiding my children through their choices, hoping they make decisions that lead to joy, rather than regret.
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Summary
The author reflects on his regrets about tattoos as a parent, discussing how they serve as reminders of a troubled past, while wanting his children to avoid similar mistakes. He emphasizes the importance of making positive choices and the complexities of growing up and evolving.