My eighteen-year old daughter, EM2, came to me the other day and said something that I’m quite sure no parent wants to hear from their teenage child. She walked into the living room, stood in front of the television so I couldn’t completely ignore her, and she told me, “Dad, I want to get a tattoo.”
I don’t know what prompted this conversation. Apparently, she had been thinking about it for several years, but was waiting until she turned eighteen before she decided to verbally punch me in the gut with the idea. My mind immediately began to spin out of control with questions.
What kind of tattoo? Where are you going to put it? How big will it be? Who gave you this idea, and do I need to kill him?
Then, I started imagining the things she might be contemplating. Was she going to have a rose put on her chest? Or perhaps some kind of elaborate lower back tattoo? Or was she just going to cut to the chase and print the word “NEXT” on her thigh? All these things flashed through my mind in an instant, but to my credit I just sat still and said nothing.
I wanted to tell her, no. I wanted to forbid her from doing anything permanent to her body that she might one day regret. But, I didn’t say anything to her for two main reasons. One, it is her body to do with as she pleases. I have no control over that. And, two, I was afraid if I told her she couldn’t do it, she would go ahead and do it anyway. I know that kid. She would probably get a tattoo in hanzi that said, “I have the world’s worst father,” just to spite me.
I finally asked, “Are you sure you want a tattoo? People will have a certain perception of you when they see you have a tattoo.”
EM told me she wasn’t worried about that. She said that most of the other girls at the strip club already have tattoos.
Most of the time, I love my daughter’s sense of humor … but not always.
By the way, just as a side note, why is it when a man has the word “Mom” tattooed on his arm it is considered to be endearing, but if a woman has “Daddy” on her, it is a homing beacon to every predatory male on the planet?
Okay, that isn’t really important. What is important, is my daughter researched local tattoo shops, picked one out and made an appointment to go in. EM then asked me for a ride because she doesn’t have her driver’s license yet.
I’m still not sure if I made the right decision, but I agreed to drive her to her appointment.
The tattoo parlor was in a small, outdoor strip mall, located between a Jiu Jitsu studio and a liquor store. I felt this was incredibly appropriate as both establishments probably added to their business clientele. Martial arts students, flush with their recent promotions to blue belt, could wander in to request a tattoo of their dojo’s logo or emblem, making a quick stop at the liquor store beforehand to bolster their courage.
Inside the tattoo shop, EM and I were met by a large garage-style mat on the floor that said “Welcome,” a cow skull with ornate etchings on its surface hanging on the wall, and a receptionist with straight black hair, several facial piercings, and a butterfly tattoo on her neck. The receptionist smiled at my daughter pleasantly, then gave me a look that clearly stated, “who are you, and why are you following young women into tattoo shops?”
I just pointed at my daughter, indicating that I was with her, then sat down in a chair in their waiting room.
I sort of zoned out at that point. I remember watching my daughter get escorted into another room by a young man who had enough metal in his face to give an airport security guard fits. Then, I just stared at the front counter, my gaze moving back and forth between a gold-colored statue of Buddha, and a small handwritten sign that said, “Cash Only!” and “We provide financing plans.” That seemed a little bit of an oxymoron, but I didn’t have the headspace at that moment to wrestle with it.
It was only about fifteen minutes later when EM came back out to the waiting area with a bandage wrapped around her forearm. She held out her phone to show me a picture of a cross inked onto the inside of her right wrist. It was small, tasteful, and I felt as if I had somehow dodged a bullet. I sighed quietly in relief as she paid the receptionist, and we listened to a rather lengthy litany of how to take care of her new tattoo over the next week.
As we walked out of the shop, I asked my daughter if she was happy with the cross on her wrist. She said she was, and that she was already thinking about what her next tattoo was going to be.
As I sat down in the middle of the parking lot to digest this new bit of information, I couldn’t help but wonder what the other girls at the strip club were doing at that moment.