As I watched the face-tattooed young man work behind the counter of my local coffee shop, he thanked the woman in front of me for her order.
That’s when I realized, I recognized his voice.
He was Josh, the son of a good friend.
I hadn’t seen Josh in nearly 10 years, when he was just a shy teenager.
Now here he was, a late-20s something working as a barista.
“Hello, Josh,” I said. “It’s been a long time – how are you?”
“Mr. Fogel?” he said, almost sheepishly. “I’m good, I guess… yeah, it’s been awhile.”
Business was slow that morning, so we chatted a couple of minutes as he made my double cappuccino.
I couldn’t help but ask about his tattoo.
“I had it done in college,” he said. “I thought it was pretty cool back then.”
But now, he said, it was a major hindrance in his quest for a professional job.
“I’ve been on a bunch of interviews, but they never call me back,” he said, sounding flustered. “I’m sure it’s the tattoo… I wish I had the money to get rid of it.”