(A brief, updated, encore)
221 words, 1 minute read time.
Having accumulated more than enough visible scars from racing sailboats, motorcycles, waterskiing, and other semi-active sports, my doctors and even casual observers will notice that my flesh is also accented by related and subsequent knife and bullet wounds.
Obviously, my skin is scarred adequately enough for casual conversation with anyone at any function or event. This is why I loathe tattoos. They are so phony! So pretentious. Like spam phone calls or false advertising, they are bogus, but permanent.
I don’t mind decorating my hands, sometimes my forearms or even my face, with henna during appropriate holidays and family celebrations at our farm in Rajasthan, but those are simple celebratory decorations. They wash off easily enough.
Even the colorful powdered paint thrown on people during Holi, the Hindu festival of colors, a celebration of Spring and the victory of good over evil. Even that paint washes off (albeit sometimes with more than a little extra effort).
I’ve even payed to have two teardrop tattoos near my right eye removed, and that at some cost and pain, all the result of an ordeal in prison left best forgotten. And still, I find myself sometimes approached by people I’d rather not ever associate with, all due to a couple of faint, remaining green-tint marks.
Seriously, tattoos are for women; real men seek to be branded, conspicuously, preferably by red-hot iron on a cheek, forehead, bicep, or forearm. They should be left to stand out openly declaring true boldness, lack of fear, and persistence in facing fear.
-dp-
3-2-25 / revised 3-31-36
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