Staring at my reflection, I envision a naked canvas. Not everyone sees the same thing, apparently, so I’ve busted the following myths for the tattoo-wary.

1. We’ll regret it

While debating the merits of body ink, an unmarked friend once told me he might never love something enough to warrant a permanent ensign. I felt sorry for him. Even the most jaded among us don’t expect that the connection we thought we’d have forever will slacken — but, er, time passes and life goes on, right? Theory proof: the Modest Mouse lyric on my foot, now faded by dint of socks, comes from a song I haven’t listened to since that night I got inked in 2008.

Do I still feel as intensely? What about when I’m in my fifties? Ostensibly, perhaps — the significance might have shifted, but it hasn’t been diminished. A tattoo, like a growth spurt or stretch mark, quickly becomes characteristic — inherent to your physique. “Regret” is not a word used by tattooed folk when recalling the circumstance. Good or bad, feelings happen (duh) and commemoration is everlasting, whether visible or not. Besides, who are we without our scars anyway?

2. We’re young and reckless

I’ll ‘fess up to this one — most people who sport body art have some degree of impulsivity. At some point, you just have to go for it, and this isn’t a trait that one is wont to outgrow. I know a mom who goes under the needle each time she births a baby (her thinking is the agony of childbirth, comparatively and subsequently, mutes the pain of tattooing. I think she is equal parts brave and badass).

Chin up, Ponyboy — gold might not stay, but ink is forever. The question every person will ask themselves before settling into the parlour’s chair is whether they can live with what is about to go down for the rest of their days. So we’ve already come to terms with that little eternal bit.

3. We like to show and tell

I reluctantly accept the idea that because our bodies exist in the public sphere, they are subject to public scrutiny, or some such thing. The pieces on my arm and clavicle are virtually un-cover-up-able in the warm seasons, and they were quick to become the favourite icebreaker for strangers. In the first weeks at a new office job, a coworker I’d just met even went as far as to pull my shirt collar down over my shoulder, to get a better look. “But what does it mean?” she asked.

The poems on my body sound cold and hollow when voiced aloud by me, trying to explain the spiritual nuances to a nobody. Usually I’ll respond with a cheeky comment re: my penchant for spontaneity, which seems to effectively pacify the interrogator. Even the butterfly infused on your butt after Spring Break in Miami holds a special meaning to the beholder of said butt. And perhaps that is the only acknowledgement needed to celebrate that wild week — or best-loved song.