In which Hip-ness runs in the family

Well. Well, well well.

I told my Dad about my tattoo. The conversation went a little something like this :

Me: Daaaaad? (wheedling tone. He knows that wheedling tone. It usually infers I am going to ask for money/a pony/more money)
Dad: (suspicious, a little bit disarmed. I could practically hear the beginnings of a scream starting in his brain.) Yes..?
Me: You love me, right?
Dad: (Oh bloody hell) Er.. yes.
Me: I've got something to tell you (smiling ear to ear in a 'don't worry I'm not pregnant' manner) that you might.. er.. not.. like so much. I mean, not that you'll, you know, actively, like DIS-like it, I mean, I just want to know..
Dad: (get the hell on with it - bloody middle children, so attention seeking - neither of us is getting any younger) Yes? What is it? (This is it. This is what's going to kill me.)
Me: Is there anything I could do that would make you cut me out of your life, turn your back, refuse to acknowledge me as a daughter? Anything that might make you shield you eyes from me in a dramatic gesture and extradite me from the house for evermore, never to be talked of and hailed in future generations as 'she whom we speak not of'?
Dad: Honestly?
Me: Er.. yes?
Dad: No.
Me: Good.
(Show him tattoo. Brace myself for disapproval at least, if not utter disgust and horror.)
Dad: Oh.
Is that real?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Oh.
(a beat)
Dad: That's okay. It's quite nice really. Did you design it yourself?

Me = confused.
My Dad = unexpectedly really cool.

Hmm. Turns out, I don't know everything about everything. No, don't shake your head like that in vehement disagreement, I think it might be true.
Haven't told my mother yet though.

Maybe, horror of horrors, I am actually growing up, and my parents don't need to approve everything I do.

No, can't be that.


There is nothing else for it.

Tonight I'm going after that pony.