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Freckle Tattoos Are Stupid. Sincerely, a Freckled Person

Screenshot: Sydney Dyer Tattoos

Remember when tattoos were for cool people and freckles were for nerds? Well, hipsters have somehow managed to change all that. Edgy, alternative beauty queens have started tattooing freckles onto their faces.

Admittedly, I’m a decade too old to be hip. To me, facial tattoos tell the world, “I aspire to work at a call center and/or live in the state penitentiary. Also, my daddy didn’t hug me when I was a child.”

Perhaps that last sentence is true. Maybe these girls feel like redheaded stepchildren and have thus decided to make it official by inking their faces with permanent micro-circles of absurdity. I guess shoving a hoop through their nasal septa like the Borden Milk Cow wasn’t attention-seeking enough? Now they want to look as if they’re one sunburn shy of stage II melanoma.

Screenshot: Amanda Smith Instagram

Ladies, we get it. You are so fucking beautiful that you can permanently scribble sun damage on your faces and still be hot.

You’re telling the world, “Look at me, I can casually place a smattering of sun kisses across the bridge of my nose while natural redheads have no choice but to have brown melanin turds dropped on unsightly areas, like their eyelids and mustaches.”

Women are already under scrutiny for having fat in the wrong places. Now, thanks to these facial tattoo gals, we naturally blotchy folks get to be self-conscious that God did our freckles wrong as well–like he made a mistake and ordered the Jackson Pollack when he meant to order the George Seurat.

We indigenously speck-faced resemble mangy orange street cats. We leave passers-by asking, “Did that odd creature spread Almond Roca on her cheeks? No. No, she didn’t. That’s just the way her melanin decided to disperse itself upon her epidermis. Like a half-chewed caramel.”

Ninety-nine percent of red-haired people resemble orangutans with skin like the “before” picture on those sun damage UV photographs. We are commonly mistaken for Ron Weasley if he had flaming psoriasis and chapped lips.

The highest compliment we’re ever paid is, “You’re pretty, for a redhead.” That’s like saying:

“You’ve got nice teeth, for a British person.”

“You’re smart, for a Frat guy.”

“You’re hardworking, for a DMV employee.”

“You’re badass, for a square dancer.”

We own it. That’s why most of us have learned to be funny. (*See: Conan O’Brien, Kathy Griffin, Louis CK, Lucille Ball, and Carrot Top–ok, not Carrot Top.*)

So to young women tempted to participate in the faux freckle movement: just don’t.

Freckles are not a classic look. They are a nuisance, and you’ll soon regret them when people begin to describe you as a polka-dot-skinned troll or a cinnamon-toast-faced goblin. Also, when your eyebags start to sag in middle-age, that “cute” skin art will probably deteriorate into something more closely resembling oblong blackheads.


A Freckled Person