From Emma Jane Taylor, Editor:
I met a guy the other day who opened the conversation with, "Wow, is that a nose ring?" It's clearly not anything besides a nose ring, so I figured he had something he wanted to talk about. He did. His second comment was, "Yeah, I have a nipple ring."
Time to trade piercing stories. "Navel," I replied.
"Yeah, but that's it." I asked him why the nipple (he didn't have anything else pierced, so it wasn't like he was running out of protruding body parts). I was expecting "Why not?" but he actually had a good story to tell.
He works in a rape/abuse counseling center, and he learned there that often, after women are raped or abused, they will get a tattoo, or a piercing, or a drastic hair cut some way of reclaiming their body as their own. And perhaps, also, some way of inflicting pain that is in your own hands.
My pierced friend had just been dumped rather badly when he learned this, so he decided to get his nipple pierced, because "it's not a place where you expect to feel pain."
I wished that I had as good a story to tell. I got my navel pierced because about four years ago, when I was still in school, I mentioned that I liked the way navel rings looked. Not on me, of course, just on your average navel. Everyone who heard looked at me as if I'd just announced in public that I like to have sex with hot fudge and a jump rope. Right then, I decided I would do it. (The piercing, not the sex.)
That summer, my sister and I braved Oxford's shadiest tattoo parlor (she was under 18, so we had to go somewhere where she didn't need I.D.) and got matching navel rings. The piercer (Ed, of Ed's Tattoos) had a two-inch bolt through the base of his nose, and earrings so heavy that daylight came through the holes in his ears. When the piercing was over, he scotch-taped a Kleenex over the ring, because he'd "run out" of band-aids. The whole affair was accompanied by the ominous humming of tattoo needles in the next room.
The nose ring only happened a year ago (post-job interviews). I thought about it for about five minutes before it happened. It took about three seconds and felt like a sneeze, so there's really no story there. (Except for the fact that the ring didn't come with a back, so for the first few weeks of my piercing, every time I breathed out too hard, a diamond stud would go flying across the room. Quite embarrassing when it happened on a plane...)
The reason I bring this up now is that lately, Michelle and I have been talking a big game about tattoos. The thing with tattoos is, you've got to have a vision. And that vision can't be a red rose or a ying yang. It's got to be a vision with a story. Just ask Randy or Josh. They once had a vision (or two) and now they've got a story.
Michelle and I have all the details down. Jesse is going to help us with design, and Michelle knows a reputable tattoo parlor in New York (pierced Ed and scotch tape just won't do this time.) Michelle has a vision and a story (a Japanese print of plum blossoms and her name in Japanese characters, because her father is Japanese.) And I have a vision a Celtic cross, in black, no color. I'm working on a couple of stories about this tattoo-to-be. I'm afraid that, like talking about where you come from, one story will get old after a while. That's why I told someone I was from Iceland last weekend. I'm thinking of working that into a tattoo story. Mark of an Icelandic princess or something.
Now, all that's left is location, location, location...any thoughts?
Emma (3/21/97)
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