My Bling Fling with Body Holes
I got a summer haircut recently.
It’s short enough to have some height on top which is nice because it makes me look taller.
But I still refuse to dye it, so it’s a definite salt and pepper do. Paired with my summer tan it makes me look a lot like an old Cuban dude, minus the tropical print shirt and the cigar.
I also got my ears pierced this week. And I didn’t even cry. Actually, I was kind of giggling. Maybe because the salon owners Spuds McKenzie dog was nuzzling my ankles the whole time.
I haven’t had pierced ears since the 80’s. Back then, they got infected and eventually closed up when I stopped torturing myself by trying to poke sharp objects into the festering wounds that were my ear holes.
I didn’t really miss the earrings because my hair was so big you couldn’t see them anyways, and if I wore dangly earrings they were in danger of bumping into my shoulder pads and possibly getting tangled in the fabric of whatever fossil fuel based material my top was composed of. Which would be awkward and possibly even dangerous. Some of that shit was highly flammable.
But my 1980’s ear piercing experience wasn’t my first failed attempt at trying to keep infected body holes open, which doesn’t sound right, I know, but I’m tired of messing with this sentence so we’re going with it.
My very first experience with body holes was in the 70’s, when I was like, thirteen (I was a precocious teenager, what can I say?) I guess I mean ear holes.
Anyways, I talked my friend Diane into piercing them for me, because I’m pretty sure my Dad was like NFW am I letting you do that you dumb ass kid, so of course, I just had to do it myself.
First, we numbed my earlobes with ice cubes. Then we stuck a baking potato behind my ear because back in those days we had one kind of potato–Russets. Yukon Gold was something you panned for up north, a Red Pontiac was a car and a Red Ruby was way more expensive than any mere vegetable. Plus I was only thirteen and dependent on my baby sitting earnings because my Dad was so cheap. So I couldn’t afford a red ruby any more than I could a red Pontiac even if they were available, and besides, I didn’t even get my license until I was 17. But I digress.
So, back to my ear holes. Diane used an oversized, threaded sewing needle to poke holes through my not so numb now flesh. It hurt, I must say. (Imagine having your earlobes stitched together without lidocaine, by an inexperienced thirteen year old Florence Nightingale wanna be who snuck into the emergency room in the middle of the night posing as a female Doogie Howser. Yeah. That kind of hurt.) Then she ran the string through, cut the needle off, tied the thread into a loop…that I was supposed to keep wiggling to prevent the holes from closing, and in a few weeks, theoretically, I would be good to go. Theoretically.
Imagine my surprise when they got horribly infected!
Which leads me to this conclusion: thirteen year old girls should be locked in their rooms with lots of educational materials, such as books and films, about proper hygiene and other important information, (like maybe how to trust the advice of elders, and, oh I don’t know, maybe how not to spend the rest of their lives spinning their wheels trying to please men, and birth control, definitely birth control, but I digress again) They should not be released until they can pass a written exam. At least I know I should have.
But right now I’m still sporting the tiny sparkly studs that came in the ear piercing gun, which sounds a lot like things that wake you up with a jolt in the middle of night in rural SW Washington, but actually make very little sound at all.
I’m optimistic that this third attempt at trying to keep body holes, that want to close, open, (which still sounds profane but it’s all I got), will be the charm.
When my ear holes properly heal, I’ll start wearing some of the pretties I’ve had hidden away for years and maybe make myself a few custom pairs.
Until then, I must confess, that even the simple little studs I’m wearing make me feel rather feminine, and when I look in the mirror, I don’t really see that old Cuban Man so much any more, just me, with a tiny bit more bling.
Which is fine. As they say: All things in moderation.
Especially when it comes to body holes.