Without a doubt, every body is beautiful. However, individuals with delicate scars or other visible undesired marks might find it challenging to embrace this perspective. Keeping this in consideration, Ngoc Like, a skilled tattoo artist hailing from Vietnam, is performing remarkable feats with her extraordinary talent.
Her expertise lies in concealing scars and other bodily blemishes with exquisite tattoos. As a result, she enables people to rediscover their confidence and reclaim contentment with their bodies.
During her college years, Ngoc Like underwent training to become a professional designer. SShe believed that relying on artistic talent alone was not enough to effectively camouflage different types of scars. As a result, she dedicated herself to extensive research. In her opinion, each individual type of scar has its own set of characteristics and properties.
Therefore, it’s essential to invest time and effort into researching carefully in order to cover the scars in the most optimal way.
Ngoc Like holds the belief that tattooing serves not only to enhance the appearance of her clients but also to safeguard their health. Drawing from the desires and inclinations of the client, along with careful consideration of the scar’s arrangement and composition, she formulates a tailored design concept. This concept is fashioned to harmonize with both the scar’s attributes and the individual’s distinct personality.
For her, perfection is not the goal, because she believes that the most important thing is to turn one’s flaws into their advantages.
Imperfections elicit feelings of shame and discontent among individuals, driving them to seek transformation. Numerous clients have approached Like, expressing that they had never previously contemplated getting a tattoo due to the negative implications traditionally linked with such body art. However, witnessing the endeavors she pursued altered their perspective, prompting them to take the leap and place their faith in her skills.
Most of her customers are adults in their fifties to early nineties. Like says they are all polite, lovely people from all over the country. She also often spends time chatting with them so that she can share, learn, and listen to their interesting experiences.
Ngoc Like has been trying to develop her business and do her job better by building a Youtube channel, Ngoc Like Tattoo, to convey the message of daily self-love by taking care of both the body and mind to the fullest.
She also hopes to contribute to the changing view of society toward the career that she is pursuing. Other than that, Like hopes to be able to take business trips to more cities around the world as soon as possible.
When asked how her clients react when the tattoos are done Like says it’s very emotional. She conveys that it’s akin to a weight being lifted from their hearts, liberating them from long-held preoccupations. Numerous individuals reach out to her, articulating that they perceive a sense of rebirth, shedding the burden of inferiority and embracing a profound sense of wholeness, assurance, and radiance. Witnessing their newfound joy stands as the most invaluable reward for her.
Making the world a better place is something each of us can do. You don’t have to be popular, rich or powerful to do it. It is enough to make people around you happier, as Ngoc Like does. While some people with tattoos make people more confident, others show by example that all people are not perfect. And that’s a great thing.
My Neighbor’s Teenage Daughter Wanted a Birthday Dress, but What She Really Needed Was a Mother’s Love — Story of the Day
After moving to a quiet town, I never expected my gruff neighbor’s rebellious daughter to shatter my window and my perception of their family. What were they hiding behind those cold, closed doors?
After my divorce, I moved to a small town, eager for a fresh start. My new house, while far from perfect, had charm. It had a weathered porch, blue shutters, and a neighborhood that seemed friendly enough.
Except for Andrew, my next-door neighbor. Gruff and aloof, he rarely spoke to anyone, and his only company was his teenage daughter, Cora.
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Cora was hard to miss. With short hair, scraped hands, and an ever-present basketball, she seemed to live in her own world. One afternoon, I spotted her practicing in their yard, her sneakers squeaking against the pavement as she dribbled with fierce determination.
“Hi there,” I called, stepping closer.
Her glare hit me like a cold wind. Before I could say another word, she launched the basketball. I had no time to react as it sailed over the fence and smashed through my living room window.
“Great shot,” I said, biting back my frustration.
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Cora smirked. “What can someone like you tell me anyway? You can’t even manage your own windows.”
And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the house.
Later, ball in hand, I knocked on their door. Andrew answered with annoyance on his face.
“Your daughter broke my window,” I said, holding up the ball.
He glanced at it and shrugged. “If she broke it, she’ll deal with the consequences. I’m raising her to handle herself when people stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
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His tone left no room for discussion.
“Right,” I muttered, walking back to my house.
I glanced over my shoulder at Andrew’s door. Something about him felt impenetrable, as though every word he spoke was meant to keep people at arm’s length.
Whatever it was, it had shaped him and turned Cora into a sharp-edged reflection of that pain. There was more to their story, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
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***
The next morning, I wandered into the local bakery. As I browsed the shelves, debating between a crusty baguette and a cinnamon roll, my eye caught a familiar figure. Cora was crouched near the pastries, her backpack open. She glanced around nervously before stuffing a couple of turnovers inside.
The shop owner, a wiry man with sharp eyes, started moving toward her, suspicion written all over his face. Acting quickly, I stepped between them and raised my hand.
“Those pastries are mine,” I said cheerfully, pulling out some cash. “I’ll pay for them now.”
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The shop owner hesitated, his gaze flickering between me and Cora, before shrugging and returning to the counter. I grabbed a baguette for myself, paid, and headed outside.
Cora was sitting on a wooden bench nearby, hunched over, her knees drawn up. Her face was smudged with what looked like dirt or maybe tears. She wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, clearly trying to compose herself.
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“Hey,” I said, sitting down beside her and handing her one of the pastries. “I hear these are pretty good. You should try one.”
She stared straight ahead, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her backpack.
“Why didn’t you just pay for them?” I asked casually, taking a bite of my pastry. “Doesn’t your Dad give you pocket money?”
She sniffed and muttered, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Just leave me alone.”
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I didn’t move. Instead, I nudged the pastry closer to her.
“I already paid for you. Next time, just ask if you need help. No big deal.”
Cora hesitated before taking a small bite, chewing slowly, still avoiding eye contact.
“Thanks for not telling on me,” she murmured after a long pause.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, giving her space to open up.
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Finally, she sighed and said quietly, “I’m saving money for my birthday. I want to buy a dress. I’ve never had a party with friends before. Dad and I usually just go to the amusement park or get donuts and go fishing. He says dresses ruin character.”
“Well,” I said after a beat, “everyone deserves a party and a dress if they want one. You’d look great in it, I’m sure.”
She shrugged, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Maybe.”
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After that day, Cora started coming over to my yard. At first, she pretended it was no big deal—just passing through or needing a quiet spot. But little by little, she let her guard down.
I invited her in for cookies one afternoon, teaching her how to roll dough and press cookie cutters into shapes. Another time, we sat in my backyard with an old jewelry box I’d kept, sorting through beads and ribbons to make bracelets.
She didn’t say much, but she didn’t have to. The way her shoulders relaxed and her face softened during those moments said enough.
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As we threaded beads onto strings, I ventured cautiously.
“Your mom… did she like making things like this?”
Cora’s hands stilled, her jaw tightening. “We don’t talk about her.”
“Why not?” I asked gently.
“Dad says it doesn’t help me to become stronger.”
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I couldn’t help wondering what secrets Andrew was trying to bury, so the next day, I swallowed my nerves and knocked on their door. When Andrew answered, I forced a smile.
“I thought Cora might enjoy going to the fair,” I said.
“We don’t do fairs,” he replied gruffly.
I pressed on, assuring him it could be good for her.
After a long pause, his jaw clenched, and he muttered, “Fine. But I’m coming too.”
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***
At the fair, the atmosphere was lively—bright banners flapped in the breeze, music played from a carousel, and the smell of funnel cakes filled the air. Cora’s eyes darted around. We wandered through the stalls, and I spotted a booth where people were weaving flower crowns.
“Look, Cora,” I said, nudging her. “Want to give it a try?”
She shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “I guess.”
She sat down at the stall, her fingers fumbling with the delicate flowers and stems. I could see her frustration building as her first attempt fell apart.
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Andrew stood nearby, watching with a skeptical expression. When the second crown collapsed in her hands, he let out a low chuckle.
“Maybe this isn’t for you. Stick to things you’re good at.”
Cora’s face turned crimson. She stood abruptly and knocked over a nearby display of floral arrangements. Pots and vases crashed to the ground, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
The vendor rushed over, her face red with anger. “Who’s going to pay for this mess?”
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“Not me,” Andrew said. “This wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t dragged into this nonsense.”
The vendor looked at me expectantly, and I sighed, pulling out my wallet to pay for the damages. I turned to Cora, but she was already storming off toward the edge of the fairground.
Andrew’s glare pinned me in place. “Do you really think you know better how to raise my daughter? Your so-called femininity has already caused enough problems.”
“All I wanted was to show her that life doesn’t always have to be so rigid.”
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He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Do you know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch someone you love disappear because they weren’t strong enough to survive? I’m trying to make sure that doesn’t happen to her.”
The pain in his eyes caught me off guard, but before I could respond, he straightened, his face hardening again.
“Stay away from us,” he said, his voice cold, before turning and walking off in the direction Cora had gone.
I stood there, the weight of his words sinking in. Andrew wasn’t just angry. He was scared. He was building walls around himself and Cora, trying to shield them both from a world he no longer trusted.
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As I watched him disappear into the crowd, I wondered if there was a way to reach him. For that moment, though, I knew I’d only scratched the surface of whatever pain he was carrying.
***
For days, there was no sign of Cora. The silence from next door felt heavy, and I assumed that Andrew had tightened his grip, keeping her on house arrest.
I tried to focus on my tasks, but my thoughts always drifted back to her.
Late one evening, as rain poured in steady sheets outside, a knock startled me. I found Cora standing on my porch, drenched from head to toe.
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“Dad doesn’t understand me. It’s all fishing, basketball, and rules. You showed me that life could be different,” she said, her voice trembling as she stepped inside.
I led her to the kitchen, grabbing a towel to dry her. I placed a warm mug in front of her.
“I miss my mom. She’s been gone for years, but sometimes… it feels like it just happened.”
My heart ached for her. “I’m sorry, Cora. I didn’t know.”
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“I feel like I’ll never be what my dad wants me to be,” she admitted, her fingers tracing circles on the mug. “He wants me to be tough, but I’m tired of being tough all the time.”
I reached out, placing my hand over hers. “Your father loves you, Cora. But I think he’s struggling too. Maybe he’s scared of losing you like he lost your mom.”
She didn’t reply, but her shoulders sagged as if letting go of a weight she’d carried for too long.
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***
The next morning, I met Andrew at his door.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Make time,” I said firmly. “Cora’s hurting. She needs you to hear her.”
He hesitated before finally speaking. “Cora’s mother drowned because she didn’t know how to swim. I’m trying to make sure Cora’s strong enough to handle anything,” he said, his voice tight. “I can’t lose her too.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. But Cora’s already strong. Your fears shouldn’t keep her from being happy.”
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He didn’t respond immediately but eventually nodded. After a pause, he sighed. “Her birthday’s coming up. I… I don’t know how to make it special for her. I’ve never been good at this. Could you… help?”
I smiled softly. “I think I know exactly what she needs.”
***
On Cora’s birthday, I organized a small party at my house, inviting a few of her school friends. She beamed when I handed her a wrapped box with the dress she’d been eyeing in the shop window. When she put it on, her joy was radiant, lighting up the entire room.
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Andrew stayed back, watching from the doorway. After a while, he stepped closer.
“She looks so much like her mother. I think… she would’ve wanted this for her. Thank you. For everything. I think I’ve been holding on to the wrong things.”
“Maybe it’s time to hold on to her instead.”
Andrew suggested that the three of us spend more time together. It felt like a promise.
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