my hands

I've been tattooing for 14 years. During this time, my hands have spent the better part of each work day wrapped in latex gloves. I use the term "latex gloves" out of habit, having actually switched to non-latex gloves many years ago. I've seen the results of latex allergies having developed in several peers, and have no interest in traveling down that road. Latex allergies are untreatable. They only get worse. Eventually even things like underwear waistbands and latex condoms become irritants. This sounds horrifying to me. I never go without underwear. Feels far too savage for my tastes. The thought of a life without condoms terrifies me to no end. Many great joys have found inspiration in comfortable underwear, and come to fruition in condoms. I'll pay the extra money for non-latex, nitrile gloves, and will smile as I empty my wallet in doing so.
The side effect of my digits spending so much time contained in these gloves is evident in my tender, lily white hands. They are smooth and pale. Soft. Almost feminine. These are most decidedly not the hands of my father, who worked in the auto body industry for more than 30 years. His hands were like leather gloves. Rough, craggy. Cracked and calloused. He could grip a piece of hot steel and not feel the pain that would send most men screeching.
I love welding. I love fighting with and fabricating old rusted steel. I build traditional, 1950's styled hot rods when I'm not at the shop. I spend a lot of my weekend time in the garage doing this. The reality of it all, however, is that I spend far more time wearing latex gloves than not. Because of this, my tender, perfect hands endure my weekends by shredding and tearing apart. Grinding sparks, hot weld spatter, sandpaper and hammer blows leave my fingers and knuckles bloodied by Monday. At the tattoo shop, protected again in the gloves, they recover. By Friday, nearly healed, I'm back into the garage to beat my hands apart again. During the week at work, I look over my hands and fingers, and recall what things I accomplished in the garage the previous weekend. The challenges of stubborn metal. The small victories, and occasional great failures. These things bring me no financial gain. No glory. They have nothing to do with my day to day work whatsoever. Done for no other reason than to see if I could do it. To see if I had it in me to master the skills required for the task at hand. Breathing new life into forgotten old steel.