Insert Foot and the new tattoo.

When my 13-year-old was about 3, she noticed I had a tattoo containing two of her sisters’ names in front of a couple roses on my right shoulder.

I remember the withering, unimpressed look she gave me, with a hands out and up gesture, like “What gives, old man?”

“Well … sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you then.”

That started a decade of promises to include her in the daughter-tattoo fiesta. At first it was going to be B.B. King’s guitar which, like my daughter, was and is named Lucille. Makes sense, I’m a big B.B. King fan—was once in a sort-of B.B. tribute band, even.

But I don’t play guitar. Neither does my kid, as far as I know. Would I have to make her learn to play guitar? Would I have to learn to play guitar? That sounds a lot like math to me. My musical training extends to hitting things while counting to four.

So the idea got put on the shelf. I either allegedly didn’t have tattoo money (yes, I did) or didn’t find the right artist or was waiting for the next astrologically friendly sun and planet cycle or … whatever. I’m a professional putting-things-off-guy and I can find an excuse not to find water for a few more hours after the house already caught fire.

The topic occasionally came up over the years: Maybe I’d get a flower or something to do with softball, which is Lucy’s sport … but who gets softball tattoos? Weird, obsessive sports dads who wear sunglasses and put gel in their hair before their kids’ games, that’s who. I already get enough funny looks from the functional adults.

Though, to be fair, I got a tattoo of what I swore was a bat after drinking one (17) too many in Texas in 2006 and have allowed the stupid thing to sit on my shoulder for the past 15 years (The artist said he was 22, looked 14 and somehow let me and my tequila liver convince him that, yes, bats could actually be blue.

There are many good reasons why I no longer drink, and that bat is one of them.

A year ago, while pretending I was looking for a new tattoo guy. To have tattoos, one typically needs to have their “guy,” and I didn’t. That was another superb excuse. My buddy—who has so many tattoos I think they sometimes happen accidentally, like he’s out running a few errands, comes home, and has no idea where that new one came from—recommended a guy in Concord, in the East Bay.

I was impressed by his work. So impressed that I made and canceled three appointments in the next 12 months. (I get busy, too). The only way I get anything done is to stop thinking, so I finally flipped the brain off and sent him a deposit and made an appointment. Because once someone has your money, things finally get real.

I cleared the idea with Lucille—who has become a fervent lover of bees; she wears bee clothes and talks to them (hey … I think I just got an idea for a new Marvel superhero). I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if the next time I pick her up, a 5-feet-something bumble bee buzzes down the driveway and into my car.

So, long story short, I showed up to my appointment and went back under the needle for a couple hours. It had been 15 years and, apparently in that time, they haven’t upgraded the tattoo experience to exclude pain. The shop had four artists working on four clients and everyone was yammering like it was a regular day at the barbershop. So I joined in on the jokes and laughing and storytelling while wondering if actually dousing my arm in gasoline and setting it on fire would feel better. But it was for a great cause: One fewer thing about which to feel guilty.

My youngest daughter is happy her father finally came through. And now I have a lovely bumble bee landing on a purple flower on my arm, with Lucille’s name splashed across the front. All is good.

Except for the bat, which my new guy wants to cover with something less foolish. That bat’s days are numbered … one of these years.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.