Like a hole in my head ...
My wife had a simple request for Mother's Day.
"I want my ears pierced."
I was a little surprised, since this wasn't going to be the first time she had undergone the process. When we were dating, some umpteen years ago, I had suggested that it might be easier to buy her jewelry if only I had a few more places to hang shiny, sparkly things. By this point, she had many more rings than fingers, and as many necklaces as my meager earnings could buy.
You could even make the argument that I pressured her to get her ears pierced back then. In the end, it was her decision though, and I encouraged her choice by lavishing her with many pairs of inexpensive earrings ("Guaranteed Hypo-allergenic!") to fill the new voids in her earlobes.
Perhaps it was the budget studs and hoops that were the problem, however. It wasn't long before both of her ears were painfully swollen and weeping from the violation. Eventually, all the sparkly-but-cheap trinkets were orphaned to the jewelry box, and her ears gradually forgave her by healing back shut, leaving little divots to serve as a reminder.
Fast-forward 15 years or so to present-day where the scene opens at Claire's Boutique. Both boys are in full-fidget mode and can't resist touching every shiny object in sight. There are seats next to the piercing-booth and they are banished to the chairs, where they take up an impromptu pillow-fight with the cushions. Good enough, we decide, and consign ourselves to being added to the list of parents who don't control their children in public places. My wife and I look over the selection of piercing studs. There are the requisite birthstones, assigned to each month ages ago in what must be in the marketing-ploy hall of fame somewhere - sitting on the shelf next to all the greeting-card holidays. Those faux semi-precious stones - a phrase that sounds as disingenuous as "certified genuine vinyl leather-ette," are set in "Guaranteed Hypo-allergenic" mystery metal studs. We'll pass, thanks. Being as the new studs have to be left in place for six weeks to ensure proper healing of the new hole, she picked out a set of flat, daisy-shaped crystal studs for herself.
"Any are YOU looking for yourself too, sir?" asked the pretty clerk with a wry grin.
"Erm, well ... maybe," I offered. The fact is, my wife had mentioned at the start of the whole discussion that she thought I'd look good with an earring. Personally, I think it was payback for my own pressure on her 17 years ago. Then again, they say that good girls tend to like bad boys, and my wife has usually encouraged a certain level of bad-boy image in my appearance.
"It'd make you look ... 'swarthy,'" she purred, eyes gleaming with not-so-hidden meaning.
"I'll take THAT one," I squeaked, and hurredly jumped into the chair to get perforated.
"I want my ears pierced."
I was a little surprised, since this wasn't going to be the first time she had undergone the process. When we were dating, some umpteen years ago, I had suggested that it might be easier to buy her jewelry if only I had a few more places to hang shiny, sparkly things. By this point, she had many more rings than fingers, and as many necklaces as my meager earnings could buy.
You could even make the argument that I pressured her to get her ears pierced back then. In the end, it was her decision though, and I encouraged her choice by lavishing her with many pairs of inexpensive earrings ("Guaranteed Hypo-allergenic!") to fill the new voids in her earlobes.
Perhaps it was the budget studs and hoops that were the problem, however. It wasn't long before both of her ears were painfully swollen and weeping from the violation. Eventually, all the sparkly-but-cheap trinkets were orphaned to the jewelry box, and her ears gradually forgave her by healing back shut, leaving little divots to serve as a reminder.
Fast-forward 15 years or so to present-day where the scene opens at Claire's Boutique. Both boys are in full-fidget mode and can't resist touching every shiny object in sight. There are seats next to the piercing-booth and they are banished to the chairs, where they take up an impromptu pillow-fight with the cushions. Good enough, we decide, and consign ourselves to being added to the list of parents who don't control their children in public places. My wife and I look over the selection of piercing studs. There are the requisite birthstones, assigned to each month ages ago in what must be in the marketing-ploy hall of fame somewhere - sitting on the shelf next to all the greeting-card holidays. Those faux semi-precious stones - a phrase that sounds as disingenuous as "certified genuine vinyl leather-ette," are set in "Guaranteed Hypo-allergenic" mystery metal studs. We'll pass, thanks. Being as the new studs have to be left in place for six weeks to ensure proper healing of the new hole, she picked out a set of flat, daisy-shaped crystal studs for herself.
"Any are YOU looking for yourself too, sir?" asked the pretty clerk with a wry grin.
"Erm, well ... maybe," I offered. The fact is, my wife had mentioned at the start of the whole discussion that she thought I'd look good with an earring. Personally, I think it was payback for my own pressure on her 17 years ago. Then again, they say that good girls tend to like bad boys, and my wife has usually encouraged a certain level of bad-boy image in my appearance.
"It'd make you look ... 'swarthy,'" she purred, eyes gleaming with not-so-hidden meaning.
"I'll take THAT one," I squeaked, and hurredly jumped into the chair to get perforated.
posted by HeadCheese at Monday, May 09, 2005
2 comments
