Tattooing Your Daughter
by Regis Boff
It has been two years since my war of resistance against my daughter’s getting a tattoo ended. The struggle of wills was an effort I am not that proud of, caving to her as I did in little over the time it took France to capitulate to Hitler’s blitzkrieg in the Battle of France in 1940. Both France and I left that struggle scarred and a little bewildered how we could have lost so quickly and utterly.
Of course, in my defense, France lost its entire army and sovereignty while I suffered only minor ego chaffing. Further defending me was that I was a first-time father, and the French had been surrendering to loud noises since the Magna Carta.
My daughter’s crusade over a tattoo may have been just a high temperature, feverish misunderstanding. For all I knew, she quietly wanted a small, barely noticeable tattoo of “Dad,” which would have been difficult, ( although not improbable) for me to contest.
Nevertheless, from the first mention, I cast her as a five foot two “Queequeg“, the prophetically tattooed South Sea Islander from “Moby Dick”.
A dad is like being a boy with a new girlfriend at an amusement park. He had better win that girl a stuffed animal if he wants love, so limp agreement if not total surrender is always the wisest course.
There are more storm clouds on the horizon for me, though. My wife is threatening to get one now, of a gold nugget and a shovel.