Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I'm not a fan of tattoos. While I'm all for expressing yourself, I just can't buy into all the permanent scribbling that is now being sported by everyone from teenage cashiers to Medicare applicants. I'm standing strong, fighting the ubiquitous trend. Just as I'm sure that I will never be subjecting my hair to another perm, I know that my pasty-white ankles will remain butterflyless.
None of this matters, of course, since my daughter seems to be embracing the craze enough for the two of us. This week, she added to her body art count with a cross/Bible verse combo on her remaining wrist. It's tough to criticize her choice. (What parent wouldn't be pleased that her child was quoting God instead of Lady Gaga?) I just wish she could have had it done in henna or, better yet, engraved it on a nice piece of jewelry.
Her dad's reaction to the reveal was priceless. Mumbling things like 'the mutilation continues' and 'when is this graffiti going to end?' he sent his usual oh-so-subtle message that he wouldn't be pitching his tent in the tattoo camp anytime soon. My hero.
In the end, it doesn't matter what her father or I think. It is her body (despite my occasional reminders that she has one courtesy of yours truly) and she does have the right to "decorate" it as she sees fit. I just hope I'm around when she's searching the Internet (I was going to say 'paging through the Yellow Pages' but stopped myself) for tattoo removal someday.
I'll try my best not to say I told you so.
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