It all began with Alicia Silverstone laying back in a chair with her jeans undone, midriff baring shirt tied just above her chest, kicking her feet in excitement as a huge scary guy swabbed her navel with iodine. Seconds later, Miss Silverstone admires the new hoop in her bellybutton.
With these brief music video images, suburbia was introduced to the idea of body piercing; I give MTV and Aerosmith a lot of credit for the proliferation of body art since 1993 when "Crazy" made its video debut.
One morning, two weeks after my friends and I first began to ooh and aah over Alicia's edgy coolness, my friend Claire showed up at my locker and informed me that she had something to show me. Before I could ask just what it was that was making her beam like crazy, she'd hiked up her shirt to reveal a small silver hoop in what would have, had it not been so red and inflamed, been recognizable as her navel.
"What do you think?" Claire asked me.
"When did you get that?" I asked.
"I did it myself last night," she boasted.
"Didn't it hurt?" I tried to imagine putting a puncture wound in my stomach.
"Not very much," she shrugged.
"Does it hurt now?"
"Nah."
"Are you sure?" I stared at the angry skin around her adornment.
"Yes, I'm sure. It's supposed to be a little red," she informed me. "What do you think of it?"
"Does your mother know?"
"Kate!"
Clearly my pragmatism was exasperating her, but I just couldn't condone her act of self-mutilation yet. She still was waiting for me to validate her new hole when a cute guy walked by and remarked, "Cool piercing." Claire's smile got even wider and she gave me a self-satisfied look.
"I like it," I finally assured her. For the rest of the day Claire held her shirt up so that everyone could admire her jewelry. It wasn't just the earring she had stuck through her navel that they were admiring, it was her daring edginess. It was as if Claire were a whole new person, a free spirit who was impetuous and cool. After all, it wasn't just anyone who could possess that devil-may-care attitude that allowed them to pierce themselves in an unconventional place. A month later it was everyone. Everyone that is except Claire, who had to remove her handiwork after a couple of weeks because it got wickedly infected.
Seven or so years later, body piercing has exploded and hardly any orifice has gone unexplored by piercing enthusiasts. It's not uncommon for people to sport tongue, eyebrow and nose rings in addition to navel rings. People going for shock value have had to leave behind multiple tattoos and a septum ring, and explore the world of branding and scarification.
Ever since Claire pierced her own bellybutton, I've longed to grab a little of her spontaneity. For whatever reason, body piercing never really appealed to me, but I always was searching for something, I don't know, edgy, that I could do to liberate myself from the clean-cut-good-girl image in which I felt confined. Finally, I decided that I would get a tattoo. When I informed my mother of this she said, slightly amused, "No you're not."
When I told my grandfather I wanted a tattoo, he shook his head and told me he remembered when only sailors and drunks got tattoos. It was decided -- I was getting a tattoo.
For years I pondered just where exactly my permanent piece of art would go, and just what design I would have emblazoned on my flesh. I wasn't going to get a rose or ladybug, or a sunshine pattern of any kind. I wanted something more unique. Something with more ... edge. I settled on a daisy. I went over and over in my head where I would feature my daisy. There was no way I could get it on my chest or any other area I would be too embarrassed to expose to the tattoo artist. And I couldn't get it on my stomach or lower back because of the possibility of those areas changing in size, leaving me with a horribly misshapen flower, was too great. My arms were out of the question because I didn't want my daisy to be too obtrusive. I wanted something more subtle. I wanted it on the top of my foot between my last two toes. I finally made an appointment at a tattoo parlor (they call them studios now, but I prefer the term parlor).
When I got there the receptionist, who was sporting a tattoo that looked like black flames on her neck, told me to sit down. Jeffrey, my artist, would be with me momentarily, she said. I sat and examined the wall of tattoo possibilities. Rather quickly I located a small daisy that would be perfect for my feet.
Jeffrey was a short guy with a tongue ring and forearms covered in ink. He had an English accent and called me "Love."
Before we began I asked him a series of questions about their hygiene practices. He showed me the autoclave, the unwrapped needles he'd use and the latex gloves he'd wear. I asked him if he knew the instances of people getting Hepatitis from tattooing. He looked at me strangely and said he didn't know the exact figures but he was sure it was incredibly small, as in less than 10 cases probably in the past 20 years. Then he paused and asked me if I was sure I wanted a tattoo. Oh yes, I told Jeffrey, I want a tattoo.
I showed him the daisy I had selected and he assured me that he did a great daisy. Next he asked where I wanted his artwork to go. On my foot I told him. Jeffrey sighed and shook his head, "Sorry Love, but we don't do feet here."
"You don't?" I was mystified.
"No we don't, because the skin changes so much and it gets faded and strange looking quite quickly. Where else would you like me to put it?" Jeffrey asked.
"I don't know," I sighed. "I guess nowhere."
Jeffrey could see my disappointment and gave me a little hug. "Sorry Love, but you'd hate it if I put anything on your foot," he said.
I nodded trying to hold back my tears. Before he let me out the door, Jeffrey gave me another hug and handed me a package of floral temporary tattoos for free. I thanked him and left dejectedly. I guess we can't all be edgy.
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