Doubt that I’ll ever succumb to tattoos or piercings, and I don’t find them attractive. But that might be due to my first impressions.
First “tattoo” I remember seeing was on a man who spoke with a strange accent. He worked at the local dry cleaning store. After I noticed the series of numbers written in dark blue ink on his arm, my father told me that the man was a concentration camp survivor.
In my generation, at Trey’s age, we were growing our hair longer than our parents, professors and coaches might’ve been accustomed to seeing, wearing out our jeans until the holes were large enough to expose both knees, forgetting to shave, smoking some strange thing that required us to burn incense to disguise the aroma, and turning up the volume on the receiver so we could get the sound blasting from our oversized stereo speakers while The Who sang, “Hope I die before I get old.”
The “old folks” didn’t find any of that attractive, but most of them learned to live with us. The way I see it, as a member of the current “old folks” generation: He’s Trey Burke fergodaskes. Let him get inked the way HE likes it.
Different strokes for different folks.