A couple of years ago, while I was trimming my 7-year-old son’s hair in our bathroom, Alex suddenly asked, “Do tattoos hurt?” I was clad in gym shorts, with no shirt, while Alex perched on a step stool in his underwear. This was the first time he had brought up my tattoos.
I have three tattoos: one on each shoulder and another on my right calf. They include a blue sun, an abstract face with headphones connected to a bomb from my favorite punk album, and, regrettably, the Grim Reaper.
I recall when Alex was just 2 years old. After a shower, I was lounging in the living room with a towel wrapped around my waist. Standing next to me, Alex reached out to touch one of my tattoos. His curious expression made it clear he noticed my body was more colorful than his. I realized then that this conversation was inevitable.
My first tattoo, the Grim Reaper, was inked when I was 19. When I unveiled it to my mother, she burst into tears. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked for that body?” she lamented. At the time, I thought her reaction was overblown and conservative. Looking back now, my tattoos serve as reminders of darker days, including the loss of my father, which is why I chose the Grim Reaper. They reflect a time in my life marked by anxiety and depression, a stark contrast to the father I am today.
When I got those tattoos, I didn’t think much about the concept of “forever.” I once heard a psychologist discuss how people envision their futures, often believing they will remain fundamentally the same, merely older and slightly heavier. In hindsight, I realize how much I’ve changed. My tattoos are now haunting reminders of a rebellious youth that doesn’t align with my identity as a father of three who works at a university.
That’s the challenge with tattoos. While many people cherish theirs as symbols of happy memories—births, adventures, or significant milestones—my experience is different. Tattoos often commemorate youthful indiscretions or phases that no longer resonate with who I am.
Like any parent, I aspire for my children to surpass my mistakes. I don’t want them to carry the weight of regret associated with tattoos that remind them of past heartaches or poor decisions.
“Yes,” I replied to Alex, “Tattoos can indeed hurt.”
“Why?” he inquired.
As I continued cutting his hair, I explained that while tattoo needles move similarly to hair clippers, they push ink into the skin in a way that can sting after a while.
“Will they ever disappear?” he asked.
“I could have them removed, but it’s quite costly, so they will likely be with me forever.”
Alex’s eyes widened, clearly grasping the gravity of “forever.” “Yeah,” I continued, “when you’re older, your friends may want tattoos, just like I did. 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. Each year they fade a little more, but they will always be there. I didn’t consider any of this at 19.”
“19 is kind of old,” Alex observed.
I chuckled, realizing how perspective shifts with age. “I used to think that too.”
Despite his confusion, he was listening intently. “I want you to always know that I love you. If you ever decide to get tattoos, you will always be my son. But I hope you choose not to, not because I believe they’re wrong but because I don’t want you to share my regrets. And if you do get them, make sure they reflect happy moments in your life.”
As I resumed cutting his hair, I looked at his flawless skin and remembered my mother’s desire to keep me unmarked. She wanted me to remain that perfect little boy she cherished, just like Alex. For the first time, I understood her tears when she saw my tattoo.
“Does any of this make sense?” I asked.
Alex looked up at me, mid-haircut, and said, “Not really.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m still figuring it out myself.”