I begged and begged to have my ears pierced. I remember it very clearly, the pediatrician with a walrus-like moustache, the clear piercing gun, the shiny orange Naugahyde of the exam table. I was four years old, and I was dying to wear the tiny Minnie Mouse post earrings someone had gotten me as a present.
Now, over twenty years later, the holes in my earlobes are pretty decimated. It’s not even accurate to call them holes; they’re basically lines, completely stretched out. The left one has just the tiniest pinprick of skin before any dangly earring completely rips through and leaves me essentially lobe-less. More