I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
November 8, 2010
>I have a confession to make.
One that will shock many of you.
My ears?
They are unpierced.
MY EARS THEY ARE UNPIERCED.
The world may never recover.
I’m kidding, of course. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve never thought having unpierced ears was that big of a deal– but you wouldn’t believe the stares I’ve gotten when, for one reason or another, the unholey state of my lobes was revealed… the undisguised clucks of disapproval from salesladies when I’ve shoved handfuls of clip-ons across the jewelry counter… the inordinate amount of pierced earrings I’ve received from friends over the years, and the lengths I’ve gone to hide the fact that I will never, ever be able to wear them.
I have learned the hard way that ear piercing is a rite of initiation among American women, and those who don’t bear the indelible marks of the sisterhood are scorned.
SCORNED.
Never was this more obvious than at a recent appointment I had with a celebrity stylist for my fashion blog. I was really excited to see how the famed Garvin von de la Cruz (as we’ll call him), dresser of various F-list stars, planned to use his expertise to complete my look– and when I met with him, things initially seemed promising. He’d brought along at a dozen shopping bags full of expensive scarves, fierce-looking heels and outrageous statement jewelry. Jewelry that… oops… included earrings.
Pierced earrings.
“A friend of mine made these, darling,” he said, holding up a dangly feathered pair next to my face. “They’d look fabulous with your skin tone.”
“Oh, I probably should have told you over the phone, but I didn’t even think about it,” I said lightly. “My ears aren’t pierced.”
Garvin’s eyes widened slightly and he froze where he was standing.
“You ears,” he repeated dully, “aren’t pierced.”
“Well, no,” I said hesitantly, waiting for him to come out with some sort of devastatingly clever punchline. None came. Garvin didn’t move. After a supremely awkward moment of silence, I continued in a rush.
“Well, I mean, they used to be pierced when I was ten but I had an allergic reaction and they got really infected and it was horrible just horrible and I let them close up again only one of them healed badly and at that point I couldn’t even wear clip-ons so when I had my tonsils out in high school the doctor was a family friend and he fixed my earlobe so that I could get my ears pierced again if I ever wanted to only I guess he sort of botched the job and one earlobe looks a tiny bit different from the other now and my mom says it’s deformed I’m not even kidding and she told me a few months ago I could never wear my hair short because of my deformed earlobe and well…” I finished breathlessly, “No. My ears are not pierced.”
“Can you believe it, Lyric?” he said, turning to his assistant, an impossibly tall, colt-like girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. “Her ears are not pierced. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” She dutifully shook her head and both of them stared at me like I was a pig fetus in a jar of formaldehyde.
“Well, I guess we won’t be needing these,” Garvin said at last, tossing the dangly earrings back into a shopping bag, “or any of the other pairs I brought with me.” He began rooting angrily through his things. “Her ears aren’t pierced,” he muttered as he worked. “Never in my life…”
As you can imagine, the rest of the appointment didn’t go so well. Garvin accessorized my jeans and button-down shirt with faux fur snowboots, camel-colored leather gloves, and a bib necklace made of felt and feathers. And of course, no earrings.
As I stood before a three-way mirror in my celebrity-styled outfit, it occurred to me that my 6-year-old daughter could very well have a future in fashion- I had no doubt she would have chosen the exact same accessories to upgrade my look.
“Thank you, Garvin,” I said with a false smile. “You certainly did… change it up.”
He gave me his best plastic Ken doll smile. “I certainly did,” he in a saccharine tone, “despite our little problem.”
I said my goodbyes and headed out to the elevators, and that’s when I heard Garvin and Lyric burst into laughter from the room behind me, their mingled voices pinpricking my heart with two tiny, almost invisible wounds.
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