the FAQ

In 1974, when I was an insufferable 16-year-old, I told my mother that I'd decided to get a tattoo of a rose. I was planning, I said, to have it placed on my breast.

To be honest, it was never a plan. Rather, it was an opening shot in the ongoing battle of wills between my mother and me. The threat of a tattoo was an in-your-face reminder that I had the autonomy to make terrible decisions I could regret and she would feel helpless to stop.

To her credit, my mother didn't react with the histrionics I'd been hoping for. In fact, she didn't even look up from the crossword puzzle in her lap.

From her armchair, speaking with perfect sangfroid, she said, "Rose tattoo on your breast? As you grow older, it's going to become a long-stemmed rose."

It would be almost 50 years before I'd

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