Tonight, with Ian holding my hand, I got a conch piercing in my left ear. I’ve had four other piercings in our time together, and so far he lucked out of Hand-Holding Duty every time. Once he accompanied me as far as the store, but wandered off in search of electronics before the needles appeared. This time, he stood firm and watched someone shove a stout needle through his girlfriend’s ear. Brave lad.
The piercing wasn’t (and isn’t) all that horribly painful. In the YouTube videos of conch piercings I’ve seen, most victims wince during the piercing, then say “that wasn’t so bad.” I was no exception.
I quickly tired of holding a bloodied paper towel against my head, and adopted the Van Gogh approach:
Ian thinks I look “tragic, like a refugee” in this picture. I think I look pleasantly bemused. What say ye?
I’m one silky scarf away from a Grace Kelly look. Or one wimple away from being a Catholic nun before Vatican II.
Observe how much my skin has improved since last November. I’m not wearing a lick o’ makeup today (as evidenced by that permanent pink spot), and after so many years of acne, nary a day passes that I’m not grateful for the miracles of modern dermatology.
From what I’ve read, healing a conch piercing is a very long, very painful process. Here goes.