Nose Ring

Before reading this article, which falls under the category “The Vanity Chronicles,” I strongly advise that you read the introduction to this series. Moreover, focus on the disclaimer.

Ever since I became a college freshman, I’ve always dreamt of having my nose pierced and sporting a nose ring. I fulfilled this dream last month; it cost me nothing more than 600 pesos, and it rewarded me in ways I never expected.

First, let me tell you about the experience.

The factor that singularly drove me to finally have one is my recent breakup with the person whom I shared more than a year of my precious life with. I won’t discuss too much on that right now (the process of retelling which would be exhausting, and narrating every single woeful bit of detail would be a sheer waste of internet time and keyboard-tapping effort!), except that the whole experience made me see myself in a darker shade of what was black already. Bittersweet, really. My own vainglorious image of myself was tarnished. Despoiled. Degraded. Befouled. Desecrated. And so, the creature existing inside the darkest recesses of what I still consider to be my brain sprang to life, sniffed, yawned, stretched, then said, “Do something to make us both feel great about ourself.” I decided, the time was ripe to have this beautiful nose abused.

It was after work when I, Florena May Castro, and a small band of friends, including one coach, went to town as an escape from the monotonous hum-slash-buzz of our work environment; a deed, which, until now, still feels strangely and downright illegal. They had agreed to escort me not so much as to provide moral support as to gain entertainment from my possible nervous breakdown upon seeing the needle. We took a little detour for a chow at Gobi then proceeded toward Upper Session where the clinic (for lack of a better word to make the place seem clean; which, to my utter dismay, was not, by the way) is located.

This picture is me and Florena May Castro
(the latter in the background) eating
at Gobi, prior to the torture!

When we reached the torture chamber (forgive the knack for embarrassing honesty), I seated myself, filled to the brim with anxiety. So many questions barraged my worried mind then, the stupidest of which sounded like, Will I get AIDS from that needle? I demanded from the wall facing me, graffitied by posters of people’s pain and pleasure from tattoos and pierces in places you’d never guess people would want them to be, “Do I really want this?” I further added, more to myself than to the wall that time, Would this help? I gaped stupidly at the wall; for my patience in waiting for an answer from it and for the answer that I received, I might as well have expected Piolo Pascual to pop in front of me right there. But, as hesitantly resolute as a 5-year-old facing his dilemma over circumcision, I said, “Yes, I will face this!” Although I didn’t notice immediately that my underarms were already perspiring profusely then. The needle, as an aside, looked so plain it would not have been scary had we tweaked the circumstance so that May was the one whom the surgery (again, for lack of a more suitable word) was to be administered to; it, however, seemed to me as thick and as fatal as a knife that time.

The person who’s going to pierce my nose (henceforth referred to as the “surgeon”) did some rituals with the needle, which had a hole straight through the center, along its body, and then he inserted the ring into that. I was relieved when I saw him baptize the needle-plus-ring several times with alcohol.

After a few grueling minutes of wait, into which so many events seemed to have been simultaneously crammed, including three Our Fathers, two bruises on a friend’s arm due to my panic, and so many pleas to the surgeon to make certain that the needle is virus-free and that the process be as painless as possible, all of which coming strangely from only one person (moi!), I was ready to be “skewered”. Or should I say, The surgeon is ready to “skewer” me?

With a green pen, he marked the point off where he desired to place the ring, on my left part of the nose; although I myself insisted that it be set to the right, because otherwise, it’ll look so common. I further reasoned out that nose rings on the left have a socio-religio-political significance for Indians and some Middle Eastern peoples (the surgeon seemed to be completely ignorant of this subject, so he pretended to be thoroughly engrossed with the beauty of a chewing gum stuck to his table). It could not have been plainer that I was exerting my mastery on delaying tactics for the whole experience; I was so afraid that it would be painful. Anyway, whatever happened happened; the situation only worsened with each passing minute, until it finally took place.

I felt the slightest pain for a moment, like when you’re squeezing out a sticky, yellowish little problem from a pimple (this I don’t advise, unless your pimple goes too abusive to the point that it turns potential lovers off already). Moreover, prior to this inhuman intrusion into the surface of my skin, the surgeon clamped my nose with a tongs (the tips of which were replaced by two identical rings, to focus the needle, and to keep the skin firm during the piercing). While the surgeon was piercing my nose, I briefly glanced towards the surgeon’s eyes and there, I saw, was a maniacal glow; on his face was an enthusiastic scowl that suggested that my nose did him a great personal wrong and that it needed punishment. I just closed my eyes, which seemed like the most advisable thing to do, and within seconds, it was completely “in”. It all happened so fast that I was surprised; I had barely reacted. He then reached inside my nose, which would have tickled me under ordinary circumstances, then pulled the needle through, withdrew it, leaving the ring itself. The end of the ring had an etched portion, like that of a screw, to secure the lock. He twisted the lock in, and it was finished! I stupidly asked my friends, “Tapos na?” knowing what the answer was already. I looked at myself in the mirror opposite us, and that’s when I realized how beautiful the effect was. And I said to myself, I’d never regret this experience. It was an understatement, really, because I still cherish that experience so much.

The ring (is not a ring, technically!) was made of titanium, instead of silver or any other metal, the surgeon informed me. Although it didn’t look to me more than surgical or stainless steel only, I just shut my mouth to prevent myself from protesting. It drained all my effort to do so, which is saying something, seeing as my most intimate of friends know me as “the great complainant” to everything. Again, I just shut myself up, and fished six one hundred peso bills out of my wallet, paid the guy, and our group started to proceed, then destined for Camp John Hay (CJH).

Barely five steps outside of the torture chamber, I felt something cold brush the insides of my throat. Stricken with panic, Iimmediately touched the ring, then realized aloud, “Nalunok ko yung bilog na lock!” Upon hearing this, my friends who had been overcome by extreme boredom and considerably disappointed because I didn’t cry or scream through the whole piercing process, guffawed; it suddenly dawned on me that they finally got what they came for in the first place: Entertainment. Phew! So much for being friends. I myself was grinning then. The surgeon heard what happened, and he summoned me. He replaced the lock, saying as he did so, “There would be no need to pay extra for this on. The replacement would be free.” His overemphasis on the word annoyed me on the whole. Again, I looked like I was going to lay a whole pineapple (plus the spiky leaves) due to too much self-control; it was all that I could do to stop myself from exploding and shouting, “T*rantado ka pala e! Mahigit limandaan na yung binayad ko sayo, papadagdagan mo pa!”

After that, feeling considerable calmer, I had one precious excuse to look at myself in the mirror again. But, seeing the renewed annoyance reflected on Jehan’s and Jude’s faces because of excessive waiting for their “fun” excursion through the bump cars at CJH, which was our next stop, I immediately winked at myself and thought aloud, “You’re beautiful. The nose ring is powerful. Hahaha!”

Because of that improvement with the way I look, I ha one more reason to display and flaunt myself more frequently. (Right now, I can hear Simple Plan ranting and asking himself how could that happen to him, whatever it was. His voice is so distracting; I wish he would just kill himself to finish it once and for all and to save my ears.) Back to the subject: After this improvement, I have one more reason to feel good-looking. I have one more reason to feel great about myself. Step 1 of 8 on my move-on list crossed out!

So, here I am, finishing this long, I-hope-not-boring, weblog. After a tissue-paper-consuming month (due to excessive bleeding, clumsy as I am) and money-burning ordeal (due to buying more than a couple additional nose rings; I constantly lose the locks, they might be swimming serenely through my blood stream already due to “over-sniffing”), here I am, never better. Although I admit that I look more “edgy”, I am still the same person. Nangangagat pero mabait. I also recently had some of my hair dyed strawberry-blonde as highlights, and it added considerably to the overall effect of the look that I was going for. However, it improved my lifestyle and outlook in life more than my looks. I feel more free. I feel stronger, braver, more able to handle stress. I just hope lightning won’t strile me though.

Yes, I can feel it changed my personality. But I only recently made up with the person who was the reason for all this. Whenever he’s trying with all his might to make me realize how bad I was for doing these beauty stuff to myself, I could only smile at him and say, “Sorry, too late!”