"You need to get your ears pierced. You are the only one who doesn't."
"Dad won't let me."
"You are 18 years old. He can't stop you. Besides, he's not here." Dorothy was persuasive. And insistent.
"I don't know any where here that does it." We were in Panama City Beach, Florida. We were there on a school-wide senior trip. We, the 15 members of the senior class of Mt. Judea High School, had fund-raised all year to earn the money for that trip. Before the Internet and Yelp! we had rented some condos on the beach and traveled via school bus. "Condo" was actually used loosely by the marketing team. Two beds, one room and an extra sink,, mini-fridge and microwave does not typically mean "condo" to most people. But there we were, sleeping six to a sand-infested room.
Dorothy, however, had noticed that the record store down the beach did piercing. Despite her questionable logic, off we went.
Little Feet has either visited or the owner/manager was just a (huge) fan, but I only vaguely knew of them. I think they were contemporaries of Black Oak Arkansas. I am sure I could have bought their albums there, too.
Dorothy told the guy behind the counter thant I wanted to get my ears pierced. He showed me the options. I picked out some simple gold balls. "Ugg! No. Those are boring. Get something better." My less boring, more acceptable choice was fake diamonds surrounded by fake gold.
"All right, hold still." He shot the earring into my earlobe with a piercing gun. That hurt. Then he did the other one.
I paid and walked out. My ears were still hurting, though. Dorothy tried to help me by loosening up the backs. Unfortunately, one earring came out. Dorothy, being the dear friend she is, shoved it back in.Ouch, that hurt!
Unfortunately, the earring went back in crooked. Or maybe the guy put it in at an angle. Either way, my right earring was crooked for years. (Until it grew back, actually. I have been crazy enough to do this more than once!)