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Nose Piercing
When Jo Bunting's daughter was five years old, Jo promised that, when she was twelve, she could have her own horse. Luckily she forgot this promise in the intervening years. But Jo hasn’t been quite so fortunate with a more recent deal rashly struck...
'Get your GCSE’s out of the way', I apparently declared some months ago, 'and I’ll agree to you having your nose pierced.'
That date arrived last month.
Exams safely behind her, my teenage daughter, Anna, began researching tattoo and piercing parlours in the East Anglian region with a fervour she singularly lacked as far as revising for American History was concerned.
Her father was against the idea with what can only be described as a vengeance.
'You’ll look ridiculous!', he shrieked, clearly unaware of the irony of such a remark when he himself was sporting his summer outfit of ill-fitting shorts and sandals.
'There’s no way I’ll be seen out with you!' Anna could hardly contain her glee. Her younger sister also had a view:
'I don’t think you should have a nose ring – it’ll look really common'. Surprisingly sensible, I thought. Until she continued, 'You should have a nice gold stud instead.'
Anna started doing some research amongst friends, and every day would return with another snippet of information for me:
'There’s this place in Norwich – it’s really good, apparently. They did Andrew’s eyebrow'...Next day,
'You haven’t made the appointment have you? His eyebrow’s gone all pussey…'
Eventually though she found somewhere – a reputable place, by all accounts but rather inconveniently located.
'So – where in Norwich is it?'
'Er – it’s not actually in Norwich.'
'So where in Norfolk is it?'
'Well, it’s not actually in Norfolk.'
'Where actually is it, then?'
'Colchester – that’s not far is it?'
Anywhere’s far in my car, to be perfectly honest, and this particular journey involved two hours on one of the slowest roads in the East of England, stuck behind a colourful variety of agricultural vehicles.
When we found the place, it was above one of those shops selling crystals and books about angels, and people who believed their Red Indian spirit guide had miraculously appeared to warn them that their gas cooker was about to explode.
Up some rickety steps we went – into the piercing clinic itself. We had to wait while the woman in Charge – called Jane – tried to establish what part of his body a young man who spoke not a word of English wanted pierced.
In the end, she decided he was after a bolt through his nipple. That’s what he got anyway, and he seemed happy enough. Then it was Anna’s turn. She was quite nervous by this time, especially when she saw the set of windchimes I’d purchased from the shop below, and she looked unusually fragile sat in the waiting room sandwiched between two heavily tattoed men in leathers.
'Which nostril?' I said, seizing the initiative, 'Right or left?'
'Well – my left – so when people look at me it’s on their right.'
Assuming there was some logic to that remark, I accompanied her into a small room and Jane explained that Anna had a choice.
'Either I can use a stud gun', she said, 'and you can change the stud for a ring after a week – or I can put a ring in straight away.'
'I’ll have the ring in straight away', replied Anna. 'I don’t really want a stud'.
'That will be a bit more uncomfortable', said Jane.
'Oh – why’s that?', I asked
'Because I’ll have to put Anna’s nose in a clamp and pull it around a bit to get the needle through.'
'I’ll have the stud', said Anna.
After changing her mind twice about which nostril to have pierced, the actual deed was no more complicated than piercing an ear – it was almost an anticlimax – but hang on, Jane seemed to be issuing me with some instructions:
'If Anna bangs her nose, or for any reason wants to remove the stud, you’ll have to get up there with a small pair of pliers.'
'Pardon?' I said.
'To prise off the butterfly fastening inside the nose'.
Go up her nose with some pliers? Anna looked justifiably worried – I can’t even change a fuse.
'In about a week', Jane continued, 'You can change the stud for either a 1 or a 1.2 titanium ring with ball attachment'.
Anna nodded wisely, although it made as much sense to me as when a mechanic tries to tell me why my clutch is slipping.
We left, with Anna sporting a small gold stud and a bottle of peroxide for cleaning purposes, while I clutched not only my windchimes but a small and sparkly lump of rock – agate, apparently, to bring relief from stress and improve peace of mind.
'Apparently', Anna said, who’d been deep in conversation with another female client as I paid at the counter, 'You can pierce your epiglottis – that dangly bit at the back of your throat'. Clutching my rock tightly, but, I suspected, ineffectually, in my hand, I strode towards the multi storey car park.
If you've made deals which have left you trembling with dread
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