The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on Lady Clever:
I’m standing in the lobby of a tattoo and piercing parlor on 2nd Avenue, my hair freshly blown-out and blonde from a four-hour salon appointment, my tawny blazer just grazing my thighs. A proper grown up lady. (No matter how hard you try, everyone ends up turning into some stylistic amalgamation of their mother, my exposed midriff be damned.) The telltale buzz of a working gun sings behind a closed door, where I imagine someone sits, trying desperately not to cry, lest they look as lame as I feel right now, a girl dressed up like Business Casual Fridays, wanting to get her septum pierced.
The girl behind the counter, who I delayed and dumbly notice has the piercing I want (“Oh! Ha! Ha! You have one, too! Duh.”) tells me you can turn it in right away. I sense that the fact that I’ve basically asked how quickly I can make it look as though I do not have a ring through my face is indication I should not really be getting one at all. But, in truth, I have work to consider: the occasional modeling job that falls in my lap that does not require my looking like some sort of rebel without a cause.
But I am a rebel! And I do have a cause!