Getting your ears pierced at Wal-Mart is nothing like getting your nose pierced.
At A Glance Author Sammantha Contact sammies_place@yahoo.com When A year ago Artist Kevin Studio Celebrity Tattoo Location Market Street under 2 Fisted Mario's in Denver, Co
In Wal-Mart they sit you on a little bench, rub alcohol on your ear lobes, mark the spots and get you with the plastic gun. In the following flash of pain you HOPE the person who is piercing your ears has done it before. Then they give you the cleaning liquid and tell you to, 'Rotate the earrings twice a day, that'll be $7.98 please.'
No, getting your nose pierced is way different...
Unlike most first time pierced I didn't get mine until I was 28.
It wasn't a spur of the moment decision. I took months – almost a year – to make up my mind on the matter.
One consideration was how my husband and his 'softly Christian' family would handle the conversation. I already knew that talk of anything getting punctured was a little too 'heathen' for their blood. Worse, any commercials with pierced people would lead to a comparison of pain levels. (Trust me when I say our last discussion on the matter ended when my Mom In Law got graphic about childbirth.)
You might ask, then, why I would get a piercing in such a highly visible place? Or, as my Mom in Law said, "Why on God's Green earth would a grown woman like you want to do something so stupid?"
Stupid? Try life saving.
Let me step back and describe the Me in the mirror on my 27th birthday.
Most of my weight sat in a stuffed face framed by semi-curly brown hair. My eyes – green if you ask – are hidden behind a pair of non-descript absolutely essential glasses. At only 5'6" tall I'm a plain brown wallflower. There is nothing to keep me from fading away in the crowds – even in my own mind.
Most of that is survival instinct. You know the drill: Mommy and Daddy arguing, fighting, beating up each other or us kids. Then there are all the little incessant cut-down games they played – even after I moved out.
Years later I realized that I'd done a lot of corrective work INSIDE of me. At 27 I'd done all the counseling sessions, self help books and meditation tapes anyone would ever need to turn into Ghandi. But the fact was it wasn't working. Why?
Nothing had changed on the outside.
In the mirror I still saw a Daddy's forehead, and Mommy's half drooped eye. These are immutable things, unchangeable things. But there was nothing of just me.
To mentally heal I'd have to go a step further. I'd have to make outrageous change from the person I saw in the mirror every morning. Instead of seeing the old fear ridden, abused me, I wanted to see someone who survived and was stronger for it.
I didn't start out with a plan. But, in a short time span (read age 27 on up) I've managed to complete the following: Tattoo on the right shoulder blade, name change (out with the old, in with the new!), hair – I did go bald just to see if I liked it (I did) (However, my husband – and most of society – are not quite ready for the 'femme bald' look), and a nose piercing.
My piercer, Kevin, was very specific on piercing issues. For months we discussed ALL the ramifications of getting a nose piercing. The biggest issue we could see was my fear of pain. I also talked with co-workers, customers and online chat groups. Someone told me piercing parlors would give me AIDS. No, wait, Hep C or worse. (Is there anything worse than AIDS or Hep C?) Back to Kevin I went. All in all he was very patient with me.
I chose Sunday morning to get my nose piercing. Not a glamorous time, no. There wasn't even one customer in the tattoo corrals that morning.
To my delight one of my most favorite movies was playing on the shop's television. Hearing Vin Disel as Riddick coming from the surround sound speakers was more comforting to me than having any relative or friend holding my hand.
Better yet, it was appropriate. Here I was getting one of the final, necessary, changes to escape the blackness I lived in, when who do I hear? – A character whose eyes were 'silvered' just to physically survive in a super dark prison.
Just for safety Kevin went over procedure, events, follow up care one more time. The glasses came off, of course. We found a spot on my nose that wasn't too obvious. (Thank God there is no such thing!) The metal of the hollow needle felt cold against my skin...
Wait! – What's this? Is that screaming I hear?
"Who died?" I asked Kevin, meaning the movie in the tattoo room.
"The drugged out white guy just got killed."
"Oh." I say. Secretly, I'm thrilled. What better way to loose a piece of the past – to step beyond the childhood agonies – than to physically hear the past 'get killed' at exactly the moment change happens?
It's a much happier year later. Yes, there are still self-image and abuse issues. They will always be there. But seeing the piercing every morning - or rather, NOT seeing the person I used to be every morning - has eased the near physical agony I existed in. In the end the question of 'Was it worth it?' is moot. After all, I'd done this for survival. And I'm still here, right?