I have never considered myself a “pretty” girl – I prefer to think that, instead, I have the handsome alertness of a Jane Austen heroine, or perhaps a portrait from the Romantic period wing of the British Museum. This would explain why I am in often dressed in peasant tops instead of tube tops, and opt for Italian goucho pants instead of mini skirts and wedge stripper heels. This look is lovely for coffee house readings of Keats, yet less effective when I walk into a bar.
Or a piercing parlor.
My best friend, Natalie, whom I have known since I was a wee lass of five, came into town from Harrisonburg, and decided that, while she was here, she was going to get yet another piercing at her favorite place in Virginia Beach. When we met for coffee that night, she asked me to meet her the next morning at ten o’ clock, sharp, so I could sit with her while they shoved needles through her inner ear.
“I just like having someone in the room with me,” said Natalie, whose ears are almost completely filled with piercings. “It’ll be fun.”
Generally, if someone were to say to me, “Laura, I’d like for you to get up early and drive to Virginia Beach, knowing that your sense of direction is practically nonexistent, and watch a large man who probably has his nether-regions pierced, ram spear-like needles into an ear,” I would tell them that I would sooner poke my own eyeballs out with a hot poker. But Natalie is my best friend, and also the woman who helped me put tampons soaked with ketchup all over the front hood of a car of a boy I didn’t like during our senior year, so without hesistation, I answered, “Sure.”
I woke up early, and was on my way to Virginia Beach. I knew the biggest problem would actually be getting to the parlor. I’m not familiar with the beach, and it doesn’t help that my sense of direction is a little “off,” meaning that I’ll suddenly panic and jerk myself across two lanes of traffic to take the wrong exit, not unlike a mentally ill salmon going upstream.
Natalie called me to make sure that I was doing alright getting there, and gave me directions as best she could. It went a little like this:
Natalie: “Keep going towards the Oceanfront.”
Laura: “So take the Lynnhaven exit?”
Natalie: “NO. Just keep going straight until you hit 19th street.”
Laura: “And then take the Lynnhaven exit?”
Natalie: “Just call me when you see water.”
Laura: “Is there water at the Lynnhaven exit?”
We finally found the place, and Natalie excitedly skipped into the piercing parlor, in a manner that reminds me a lot of myself when there is a half-yearly sale at Dillard’s shoe department.
We were greeted by a very large man who was watching King of the Hill in the back room when we came in. I have no other way to describe him except to say that he looked like a tiki god. He had huge earlobes from the gages that he put in his ears, and tattooes down his arms, and up to his neck. He loomed above us, and as I stared up at the bone-like piercing he had through his nose, and I immediately had the urge to a.) gasp, and b.) attend a Polynesian buffet dinner show.
“Hey, I’m Jeff,” he said. ”Let me know if you have any questions.” He did a once-over of my outfit, which was a black top with a flower, and little bows on my shoes. I’m sure I appeared as though I got lost looking for my Garden Club meeting.
While Natalie browsed, I thumbed through the various magazines in the waiting room. There were many to choose from, as long as I wanted to read Pierced Up, Hole Makers, or Unpleasant Pictures of Gut-Wrenchingly Painful Piercings, Lmtd.
“I don’t suppose you have an Oprah magazine, do you?” I asked.
Jeff told me that they did not, and asked if I needed directions somewhere.
Natalie decided on a small hoop, and we were lead to the back room that smelled of rubbing alcohol. On the wall there was a poster that read “Pierced Angel,” and a naked woman stood artfully before us with her hoo-hah pierced.
“That’s fucking sweet,” said Natalie.
“I love that poster,” said Jeff.
“Yes, it’s simply lovely,” I agreed, trying to earn credibility. “I had no idea that you could fit two piercings in one nipple.”
Jeff quickly set to work on Natalie’s ear. He had her lay back in the chair, and at this point, I began to sweat.
“Natty, do you need me to hold your hand?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Natalie said.
“Will you hold mine?” I asked.
Jeff swabbed her ear down for a good five minutes, and I looked around the room at the various piercing posters that were hanging about. My favorite was the one with a hot dog that read We Pierce Anything. I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find one for my foyer, but Jeff was ready to pierce.
“Deep breath,” he said.
Natalie inhaled.
He clicked.
I screamed.
When I opened my eyes, Natalie and Jeff were both staring at me with raised eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” I said. ”I usually do a lot better when I have an Oprah magazine handy. I could donate a few if you’d like.”
Jeff declined.
When we left, Jeff wished us well on our quest back to Norfolk, and gave Natalie his card. I was not offered one, which is just too bad for him, because I don’t donate Oprah magazines to ungrateful piercing specialists.
I followed Natalie back to Norfolk, and she drove like she was conditioning for Nascar tryouts. I, on the other hand, followed her like Mr. Magoo. She pointed to my exit out the car window, and we blew kisses back and forth until her car was out of sight, gliding back down the highway into the morning sun.
Our goodbyes are always like that. You don’t get a bunch of sentimental muck from a chick that spends her day off getting a piercing from a tiki god.
We’ll be taking a trip to Richmond together soon to celebrate my birthday, and I can’t wait. She said something about checking out a piercing parlor in the city, but if she wants anything like the poster with the baby bottle whose suckle is pierced, she’s on her own.
Unless there is an Oprah magazine in the waiting room.
