I got my ears pierced this week and immediately classified myself as “a rebel.”
I didn’t even get something technically outrageous, like a forehead piercing or a tongue piercing or an ass crack piercing. I got two little earrings on one ear lobe – a tiny hoop and a tiny stud. Any smaller and you’d think they were cupcake crumbs (I probably have a few of those on me, too).
Not badass enough for a tattoo and yet too badass to consider “swearing” a big no no, I decided I needed to get piercings to liven up my identity.
What grown, 26-year-old woman feels the need to “liven up” her identity? Me. I do.
The last time I felt the need to do something like this was at age 16. I decided to get my cartilage pierced at Claire’s. This was a bad call. Any place that sells cupcake flavored lip gloss should not be responsible for piercing perky teenage ears. I walked into Claire’s with a newfound pep in my step. Not only was I inside the store my mom thought signified loose morals and loose vaginas, but I was well on my way to doing something no one in my family had done before. Sure, my mother had let a friend pierce three holes in her ear lobe during college, but the cartilage was untouched. The cartilage was pure. The cartilage was my thing.
I got my cartilage pierced and then promptly developed a relentless, crusty infection. It hurt so much to sleep on my ear that I’d lie awake at night, trying to convince myself I was a back sleeper. But I couldn’t lie to myself! I’m a side sleeper. Always have been, always will be.
All of that side sleeping gave me a keloid the size of a white man’s ego. What is a keloid, you might ask? It’s a giant, bulbous mass of tissue that forms a hard little ball and prevents you from the identity-defining glamour you deserve.
I had to remove my cartilage earring. And I had to get several rounds of steroid shots to reduce the size of the keloid.
Flash forward ten years later and I’m not desperate to be cool anymore. I’m a badass bitch. I work in Hollywood, I’ve had sex, and I’ve got giant tits. I am completely at-ease with my identity. I feel no lingering desire to be “cool” because I’ve accepted myself as…
Just kidding. I mean, yes, all of the above statements are true but none of that makes me “cool.” No, no. I’m still not trendy enough; I’m not fashionable enough; I still hear songs like “Pony” by Ginuwine and ask my friends, “Hey, have you heard that great new song??” I need a physical representation of what I could become. I need a giveaway that will tell people, “Hey, that bitch has lived. She’s seen some shit. She’s not like everyone else.” I need…a piercing.
I decided to get my piercing(s) and then promptly heard that my mother and two sisters had gotten their “conchs” pierced during my sister’s college’s Family Weekend. Just three women, casually walking into a piercing parlor in Western MA and asking for someone to please pierce their conchs.
What is a “conch,” you ask? A conch is the giant bit of cartilage above the lobe. It’s not the upper cartilage, nor is it the bottom lobe; it’s the middle portion of the ear. For most people, it’s a no-mans-land. Only the brave dare to pierce at the mid-point. And of course, the women in my life decided to do just that.
This put me in a tough situation – was I conch-ready? Given my past cartilage issues, I wasn’t sure if I could handle anything above the lobes. Would I forever be relegated to a lobe gal?
It turns out, my friend Jasmine was also looking for a way to spice things up. Why sit on our couch watching Beverly Hills 90210 when we could put holes in our bodies?
I spent days wondering what kind of girl – woman – I was. Was I a cartilage 2.0 kind of gal? Was I a hoop girl? Or a stud girl? Or, worst of all, were my ears…gulp…too tiny for piercing at all? (If you haven’t seen my ears, ask to see them the next time we’re together. They are smaller than most moles and kind of look like deformed artichokes.)
Jasmine and I walked into the tattoo/piercing parlor, completely out of our element. Yes, Jasmine has multiple tattoos, but we weren’t there for those! We were there to get pierced. The piercing woman asked us what we wanted? And I froze.
What did I want? The mystique of a woman who fiddles with the dozens of earrings on her ear? The outgoing personality of a woman with multiple hoops, symbolizing her openness to the world? The easy-going personality of a woman who gets peace signs in her ears and then sips kombucha long into the night? Or, did I want to settle for an earring in each ear, symbolizing balance and normalcy?
I debated for several minutes. I texted my sister, Lydia. Then I called her because my texts weren’t going through. I was panicked. And, to add insult to injury, it turns out that quality jewelry is expensive. This was going to be a fiscal endeavor, and I was nervous.
Jasmine and I both settled on a hoop and a stud on one ear – mine on my right and hers on her left. She went silver and I went rose gold. We both survived what felt like a bee sting but sounded like shoving a needle through the thick skin of an orange…or an ear.
I’m thrilled with my piercings. I keep looking at them like they’re fresh boobies that just popped out of my chest. I think people will look at my ears (if they can find them) and think that I’m “cool,” but that being cool isn’t all that’s important to me. I think they’ll think I have other interests and concerns, and perhaps even a dose of self-assuredness. I think they’ll think, “Wow, what a stable woman – brave enough to push the limits, but sane enough to back away from the edge.”
And how wrong they’ll be. Little do they know, I’m currently researching tattoo designs.