It had always rubbed Tyson the wrong way that, minus thirty years, he is the spitting-image of his father. After his scars and not being 'manly' [largely lacking body hair and not being overly muscled], looking like his father is one of Tyson's main issues with his body. It was why Tyson was ‘afraid of’ the idea of needing glasses and, despite liking himself far more with stubble or a small beard, Tyson kept his face clean shaven.
He knows he'd a, relatively, handsome man. Adorably handsome. However, he can't admit that and has convinced himself he isn't, because admitting that would be admitting his father was. Tyson wants to demonise his father. The late John Delaney caused Tyson hell growing up and Tyson refuses to attach a positive word to the man, at the cost of his own self-image.
Tyson knows he had his father's stubbornness and determination, mathematical gifts, quick wit, mild sentimentally, unorthodox moral compass, and love of strong, rich coffee; but he is terrified of becoming more like him.
Tyson doesn't want to be as sadistic or ruthless as his father, he doesn't want to become as short tempered as the deceased professor, he doesn't want to be as cold or dismissive as his father, nor does he want to be as lonely as his father.
That said he wouldn't mind inheriting his father's charm, social graces, neat handwriting, and confidence.
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