When I was around 10 years old I finally wore my mother down and she allowed me to get my ears pierced. We had just moved away from my hometown and I wasn’t dealing with it very well, so this was sort of my “reward”/birthday present.
The place was immaculate, sterilized completely and staffed with individuals who had earned more First Aid/pathogen certificates than one should be able to in a life time. The piercer sat me down on the edge of the chair and pulled on his rubber gloves. He then pulled out what looked like a plastic “U” in a secure baggie.
I didn’t know piercing guns– even disposable ones– were bad. My mother had gotten her ears pierced in the late 1950s by a girlfriend, so I doubt she’d even seen one before. All I knew was that what happened next was- to this day- the most painful thing that I have ever felt. If the piercer used anything to numb my ear it clearly wasn’t doing its job, and his demeanor wasn’t helping. “Close your eyes and think of something nice.” KA-CHUNK.
It took months for my ears to heal to a point where I could change the earring out. I distinctly remember being able to break off plates of dried blood from the post and I was unable to sleep on my sides for weeks. To this day- 17 years later- I still get inflammation from the holes.
Who was this horrible piercer? MY PEDIATRICIAN. Just goes to show you, you can be pierced in the cleanest spot imaginable, by someone with multiple degrees in health and safety, and piercings can still go wrong.
Thank God it wasn’t a girlfriend’s house!