I found a post from Writer’s Circle on Facebook – with a 30 day writing challenge. This is day 7: What tattoos I have and if they have meaning.
When I was ten, I begged and begged and begged my parents to let me get my ears pierced. All my friends had their ears pierced (the worst argument in the world, and yet…) and I being more of a joiner back then, wanted to have it done too.
“Mutilation!” my Mom cried cried. “Why don’t you have your nose pierced while you’re at it?” she asked me. Little did she know that 20 odd years later, that would become trendy as all giddy up but hey, that’s the power of hindsight.
Anyway, I begged some more and finally my parents gave in. We went to Eaton’s or something like that (yes, I’m that old), picked out studs and I sat in THE chair. I have zero pain threshold – which makes it all the more outstanding that I survived childbirth, but I digress again.
So, I sat and the nice lady with too much perfume on (the things we remember) put the piercing gun on my earlobe and WHAM. It hurt so much I thought I was going to throw up right there and then. Luckily, she just spun the chair to the other side and WHAM! Other ear done. It’s a good thing she was fast: I’m not sure I would have made it if she had taken any longer or stopped for a coffee break or something.
I cried after it was all done and swore that I would never again do something like that to my body. It’s a good thing I didn’t know too much about episiotomies before giving birth or the kiddo might have had to stay in there.
So this goes the long way around to explaining why I don’t have a tattoo. Unless you want to count the temporary My Little Pony one I had last week. No? I didn’t think so.