So, here’s the thing:
the niece is now the proud owner of her very own tattoo. I suppose this development was inevitable;
she is twenty now and she was looking for a change more permanent than that
provided by her ever-shifting hair color.
I have not seen this tattoo and neither has anyone else, as far as I know,
and I believe the reason for this is that she does not want her grandmother to
find out that she’s gotten one; my mother has what might best be described as a
profoundly negative opinion of tattoos and tattooing brought on by my naval
brothers’ enthusiastic patronage of the art.
Still, I hear that the niece is very proud of the tattoo, so I will keep
my opinion to myself when next I see her.
Tattoos are the fresh fruit of art; one sees them to best advantage when
they are brand-new, as the canvas does not, to put it mildly, age very
well. I must, however, admit to a
certain bemusement about all of this; I know that tattoos are all the rage
nowadays, and one should excuse the young for wanting to follow the fashion of
the day, but there are few things in life that confirm my belief that no twenty
year old ever believes they will be fifty some day than a tattoo. One may as well tell the young that the sky is
not blue than tell them that their youth is not a permanent condition. They
will smile at you and think, what does he know, the old coot?
Labels: middle age, Roberta Vasquez, tattoos, the passage of time, the young, youth