In Which I Frequent a Tattoo Parlor

As you know, Gary bought me earrings for Christmas, though it’s been six years since the visit to Claire’s earring boutique to get my ears re-pierced. The visit was successful, but the healing process was so unpleasant I let the holes close up again. Evidently Gary doesn’t look closely at my earlobes, and since he knows I still have earrings hanging in my closet, he figured I was just temporarily “off” earrings.

The healing process probably didn’t work because I only gave it six weeks. I got tired of all the saline soaking, and fiddling, and rotating the stud, and because I couldn’t sleep comfortably with the post gouging me in the neck. Oh, and because I had 0.02 white blood cells: that might be why they didn’t heal.

I still have low WBCs, but I’m calling on the neutrophils to step up. That’s the reason I decided against Claire’s again in favor of a tattoo parlor. I researched tattoo/piercing parlors in my area and the Post Dispatch says the one in Saint Charles is inspected frequently by the local authorities, and again by an outside party, and they have a clean room or something where they autoclave everything.

And my god, was it clean. Clean and airy and professional. And, yes, it hurt more than having it done at Claire’s, but I’d rather have a second of pain than the violence of a teenager taking a hole punch to my ear. The first thing I said after the first one was done was “That was nothing. I’ve done worse to myself.” which at the moment seemed cool, but a second later I realized how dark it sounded.

I specifically asked for a hoop so I can sleep on my side, and they gave me something I think I’ve seen in people’s noses.

At the time of this posting I’ve already swiveled it so it just looks like a hoop. I have no balls.

Gary talked a big game beforehand about getting his own earring, or perhaps getting a tattoo. I believe they will tattoo a dot on your body to see if you can take the pain, and I was so sure Gary would fail that test I was going to help him pick out a tattoo. Sadly, he bailed before he even walked in the door. I thought the cleanliness of the place might at least make him eye the earrings, but no. He says now he’d look like a “poser” if he got an earring.

I like the circular barbell earring, because I am a poser, and for another reason. Claire’s says you can’t change the earring for six weeks, these people say twice as long. If I have to keep it in for three months, and then no wire earrings for six months, I’ll get bored. However, I think they’ll let me swap out those little balls.

No pearls, I’m sad to say, but I did find a pair of opals.

Of course, after half a year I can hang anything I want in my ears, and since I’d sworn off earrings I culled my collection down to just those with sentimental value. The pearl earrings Aunt Carleen got me for my wedding, the silver guitars from my niece, navy blue ones from my sister-in-law’s wedding, the BNL guitar strings. And about twenty others. Let me look.

======== Moments later

Okay, forget what I said about pearls. I have appalling taste in earrings. There are way too many joke earrings. Fire hydrants in one ear and dogs in the other. I don’t see how I missed these:

And, I don’t know why I never made my own earrings. Look at my desk. Those Forever stamps could be earrings. That SIM card could be an earring. Those sunflower seed hulls could be earrings. Any dollhouse minature could be earrings.The British coins I use as magnets on my fridge could be earrings.

Well, it’s clear what I’ll be doing the next three months.