I hate tattoos. My daughter has a dozen of them and I always tell her to find and marry the guy who comes up with an easy way to eradicate these beasts as she will be marrying a multi-billionaire.
As a child I recall seeing a man who had an armful of these. On the top of his one arm was a picture of a leggy, scantily dressed woman then something about this gal being the love of his life. Further down his arm were the names of 4 women, 3 of which had “x’s” through them. It was quite a site for a girl of 10.
But what left an even greater impact was seeing a man in his 90’s in a wheelchair in the NYC garment district. The tattooed numbers on his arm were associated with his concentration camp time.
Something to think about.