On her eighteenth birthday, she came home, found Ma in the kitchen, and rolled up her shirt. Ma, predictably, gasped.
“That’s permanent, you know. That ain’t gonna look good when you’re eighty.”
“Ma, nothin’ looks good when you’re eighty.”
Ma stared at daughter for a long moment and finally, with just enough movement to change the light reflecting off her bifocals, nodded. She found another glass, poured a half inch of wine into it from her own glass, and handed it to her daughter.