When you’re 82 years old and your about to be 18-year-old-granddaughter adds a third stud to each ear and a nose piercing, it feels like a rebellion. Her mother, at the same age several decades ago, cut her hair into a modified Mohawk and dyed it orange. Their actions felt pretty much the same way.
My first encounter with these “me” events was when Samantha, my daughter, grew a rat’s tail. Her stepdad had long hair when he was a graduate student, and they bonded over her new hairstyle. I grudgingly accepted it, but an orange Mohawk before she left on a summer trip to Europe was too much. I was an ex-cop, a professor, and a devotee to personal moderation. My rebellions were always political, usually with serious if not dire consequences, so this kind of personal individuality stuff was new to me. Why?
I dragged Samantha to the hairdresser, who promised to color over the orange, but she couldn’t do anything about the Mohawk. It was a ruse, and the brown color was a rinse that disappeared after a quick washing. Samantha sent postcards from London full of images of kids with outrageous hairstyles, tattoos, and piercings. She was practically a conservative by their standards.
When my oldest daughter wanted to buy her wedding dress at Goodwill, and I went ballistic and bought her an expensive dress from Dillard’s, I began to realize how bourgeois I was.
At 62, I got a tattoo on my right index finger. It says “To Live” in Morse code. It can easily be misinterpreted to mean F you. My first ‘me’ rebellion. My dean made me cover it with a ring when we were at meetings. I sort of got it!
So, I tried to convince Ella not to get her nose pierced, but knew I would lose the battle. Her mom and dad had already consented. I have other grandkids with nose rings, which I really find abhorrent. Water buffalo have nose rings! I guess it’s a generational thing. I’d be so much happier if they were protesting Trump.
