The Tattoos (with a Few Piercings on the Side)

So my blog/journal is called Booboos to Tattoos, so I thought I’d cover the tattoo aspect of my daughter’s life. There’ve been a number of booboos, but that’s for a later time.

She has always been fascinated with the tattoo and piercing subculture—and has always been very artistic with a mind to match. When she was in middle school, she bought herself tattoo magazines, which inspired her to sketch unusual designs on her notebook. When I was that age, I doodled 3-D boxes and houseplants. She drew bleeding hearts and snarling demons. I thought for sure a teacher would notice and alert the principal!

She snuck her first tattoo at 16—a large, unfinished swirly thing on her left flank, followed by a clunky tongue piercing that hit her teeth when she talked. Dummy me, I didn’t notice for a long time (in my defense, she was an expert-level sneak and liar in those days). I’m sure I eventually wrote about both when I found out.

She moved at a steady pace to where she is now. Surprisingly, she’s not covered from head to toe; I think she may actually be cognizant of how it would impact her job. She is very attracted to men and women who are excessively tattooed, though—I imagine she thinks they’re beautiful or cool. She has a number of new tats that are visible and, like a lot of people her age, claims the tattoos have personal meaning (please note, I hate tattoos and think they’re all disgusting and only mean one thing—you effed up your body). The ones I can see include: on her finger, the name of a beloved pet who passed away; on her arm, a philosophical poem; and now, on her chest, a hexagram that looks like a yellow Star of David, akin to the ones worn by Holocaust victims. It’s under her clothes, but it showed in a picture one day, and I was taken aback. I find that one, above all others, very offensive. I would be mortified if anyone I knew saw it, and will insist she’s totally covered if she comes to my house. The other ones aren’t visible to me, thankfully, because each and every one upsets me. I went to a therapist once who told me to accept it for the sake of our relationship, but all I do is avoid saying anything. That’s how I deal with the subject. But I DO NOT accept it. 

Her piercing has calmed down from the days when she had nipple rings. That was so traumatic for me and totally gross. I saw it by accident, but she was rather proud. Ugh. That was a long time ago, and I don’t think she’d do it again. Currently, she has one through her nose, bellybutton, eyebrow, and an occasional one through her lower lip. I’ve seen her with a sparkly thing above her lip (where Marilyn Monroe had her “beauty mark”) and she’s been growing holes in her ears with gauges—these Fred Flintstone-looking things in a twisty shape—that get thicker every few months. 

I don’t understand any of it, even after all these years, and after all my reading and therapy. I justify it, make light of it, pretend it doesn’t bother me, and avoid thinking about it altogether. I’m great about acting like it doesn’t exist, but it’s truly agony for me to think about what she’s done to herself. She’s really beautiful and smart, but who’s going to notice that? I know her generation is different from mine, and I know people will think I’m shallow and close-minded. I’m not really—I’ve just have been through so much with this daughter that I’d love it if she’d tone it down. FOR ME. If my dreams could come true, I’d have her laser away the tattoos, grow her beautiful hair out, let all the holes in her head close up, get a college degree, and move upward and onward. Then I woke up.