“A cat with wings? Seriously. That’s just freaky,” I said, shaking my head at her.
She harrumphed and turned the page. “Tattoos are forever, my ink-happy friend. Whatever you get, you’ll have it when you’re old and wrinkly and rolling around the nursing home in your wheel chair. I’d rather have a cute cat than one of those skull and cross bones you’ve been looking at.” She put her hands on her hips. “Plus, it’s going to hurt. It’s a sharp needle poking your skin like a thousand times.”
I chuckled, imagining her nose twitching in the universal sign for danger in bunny language.
“And, I saw this show on True TV about this guy that got a tattoo on his back and then died three days later from ink poisoning,” she added, tapping her fingers against the glass case we leaned against.
I snorted. “Stop watching that crap channel. It’s turning your brain to mush.”
Her mouth opened. “Stop? Are you insane? Cheaters is on True TV! I’m addicted to seeing people screw around on their significant others.”
“And you call me crazy.”
“Yeah, ’cause you’ve taken up drinking and breaking the law. And now you want a tattoo? You’re like this whole other person.” she said, waving her hands at me. “I’m afraid of what’s next.”
Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.
“Decided yet?” the tattoo girl asked us with a bright smile, setting her elbows on the counter to talk to us. With her bleached out spiked hair and the tatted roses and vines she had on her arms, she looked like an exotic bird. I decided tattoo girl was beautiful.
Then I saw the tiny bump underneath her shirt.
“Are you licensed to do nipple piercings?” I asked as Mila let out a loud gasp.
“Yep, do ’em every day. And we just got some new jewelry in. Take a look,” she said, pulling a case of shiny silver jewelry from underneath the counter. She picked up one that had two balls on the sides. “This here is the barbell and the most common for guys. And this here,” she said picking up a tiny ring, “is the silver ring, which the ladies seem to like.”
My eyes went to her tight blue T-shirt. “Which one do you have?”
She picked up a tiny pair of angel wings. “This,” she said pointing to the etched feathers on the wings. “They’re new and totally sweet,” she said mischievously, “and my boyfriend loves to play with it.”
“I want it.”
Mila grumbled and put her head in her hands.
The shop girl smiled. “Great. I’m Shayla, and I’m the resident female piercer around here.” She cocked her head and looked down at the image books. “But I thought you were looking for a tat today.”
“I want the piercing first and the tat later,” I said, thrilled at my decision to be in control of my own body. For too long, I’ve let others dictate everything: how to eat, how to dress, how to smile, how to walk, how to pretend.
“Okay, then, come on back here, and we’ll get set up.” She glanced over and smiled at Mila as she led me down the hall. “Does your friend want to come and watch?”
Mila’s face whitened, and I arched an eyebrow at her. I loved her, but she was a weenie.
She exhaled heavily but followed me, her hair bouncing. “Just because I’m curious, doesn’t mean I approve.”
Shayla had me take my shirt and bra off so she could study my breasts. I reclined on a chair while she touched my nipples with gloves on. “Your nipples are a good size. You’re not planning to breastfeed anytime soon, right?” she asked.
Mila laughed out loud. “God, can you imagine either of us with a baby?”
I shook my head dazedly, picturing me with a baby, breastfeeding. Then I imagined Mother’s face if I came up pregnant. It would be her proof that I really was a whore. I imagined all the nasty names she’d call me. I pictured myself in a televised beauty pageant, wearing an evening dress that stretched tight across my swollen belly. Knowing her, she’d turn it around and use it to her advantage by creating a news story out of it: “A Parkie Girl’s Story of Being a Whore.”
Shayla briefly explained about the healing process and gave me a packet about caring for the piercing. I signed a release form.
“Is it gonna hurt?” I asked, watching as she set out her instruments.
“God, Nora, you’re putting a needle in your boob. Of course, it’s gonna hurt,” Mila muttered.
Shayla nodded. “Yep, it will, but the worst is only about five seconds, then it eases up. You can do anything for five seconds, right?”
I scoffed, thinking about those measly five seconds. I’d endured much more pain, for a lot longer. So yeah, nipple piercing, not a big deal.