We were driving
through June fog to fulfill my firstborn’s destiny. He had waited until he was
in high school before we’d let him get his ear pierced, which we felt was
reasonable and it bought us some time.
Just a quick call to Dad to officially sign off and he was golden. My husband was on a conference call and
not in the mindset to deal with this life altering teen moment.
Forget it. You will regret it for the rest of your
life.
We were nearing
the last Marin exit before the bridge. I pulled off to mediate and call for backup:
my younger sister and my husband’s younger stepbrother. Both weighed in heavily
on my son’s side. This being that
not only was ear piercing OK, but also that getting both ears pierced was the
norm. I got back on 101 and headed for the city in the hopes that my husband
would see that this was going to happen eventually anyway, even if it wasn’t
today. I scored a George
Costanza parking spot off Haight and my husband called back.
Okay, one, but
make sure he gets the right one, or the correct one, you know?
Gender identity
issues weren’t the problem; now my son was insisting that a single earring was
for dorks and that we were dorks.
Alright, get
back in the car. Let’s go back home.
Fine!
As I
turned onto Masonic the phone rang again.
I took a poll
in the office and the younger people say that getting just one ear done is a
little dorky. So, I guess two is
fine.
Now I had to find
another parking spot.
At Anubis Warpus
their piercer didn’t come in until 2. They recommended Mom’s down the
street. At Mom’s the Amazonian
pink haired Betty Page wouldn’t do it because my 14 year old didn’t have a
picture ID. Soul Patch doesn’t
pierce minors, period. Who thought
a suburban housewife would be the most permissive person on Haight Street?
Since I was with
him and it was only lobes, the two men at Cold Steel were lenient. Both were
ambitiously modified, each embellished with ink, facial piercings, and
earplugs. Our piercer could have been plucked right off the Black Pearl, complete
with limp. He was only lacking a monkey. Maybe this was for my benefit, but the
pirate made a big point of how he always checks with his mom before he gets
anything new done. Except the time he forgot when he got his tribal chin
tattoo.
After ribbing my
boy about becoming a man today – the other guy insisted ‘that costs extra’- the pirate was all business. Noting that his left
lobe was thicker and slightly higher, he dotted his lobes with ink to check
placement. The aesthetics were key.
All the while, the pirate was quick to dispense worldly sage advice:
Girls have cooties.
Then it was done.
With his red curls pulled back in a low ponytail, showcasing the new steel
hoops of (young) manhood, my boy needed ‘za. We celebrated with two slices. Then he called his Dad.
2007
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.
