My roommate and I were talking the other day about the death of malls and how freaky that is for people of our age. He was far more of a mallchild than I ever was (malls involve walking and people, not two of my favorite concepts), but I do have some pretty intense memories of malls.
For instance, Claire's played a big roll in a lot of my young womanhood. When I was six, I was taken to Claire's and placed in a chair. A woman who looked old and wise and serene (who was probably like 22) stuck a gun to my earlobe and popped its cherry. When she moved the gun, a nice pretty little blue stud was in my ear. She did the same thing to the other one.
I remember riding home in the car, my fingers constantly returning to the earrings, rubbing them to feel this amazing change in my life. To my six years of age, this felt like the true mark of womanhood. My thoughts filled with all the grand and beautiful adornments my ears would now have. For all of about two days, it was glorious.
Then my earlobes got horribly infected and everything was pain and pus and more pus.
Of course, by the time I was 12, I'd become far more sane and mature. Actually, I hadn't, otherwise I would have known that having one set of horribly difficult piercings wouldn't get any better by adding another set. Oh wait, adding two more sets. Honestly, I have no idea what possessed me to think I could handle six earrings when two plagued me almost to death.
And yet, I got them. Again, I rode home, playing with my new earrings, thinking this was the most badass thing ever. Damn, the level of horrible infection this time. Yet, I kept on. I poured peroxide over the red and angry little holes, winced at the pain, and contemplated using safety pins to do more holes. In fact, I did that quite a few times when I was ten. I've tried to block the level of nastiness that caused from my brain.
Like most children of divorced parents, many weekends with my father were spent at the mall. I'd go to Hastings and other places, but always end up at Claire's. I had this ritual where I would start at the front displays and just kind of blissfully make my way to the back of the shop, looking at everything and considering if I wanted it or not. I'm sure I was just as annoying as possible to the people who worked in there. Middle schoolers have very little concept of such things though.
Sometimes I would buy a bracelet or a necklace . . . or one of those rather Claire kind of things that had lots of glitz and feathers. Most of the time though, I'd end up back with the earrings I considered to be rather befitting of me. You know, the deeply tacky pseudo goth ones.
By the way, historically, the Pseudo Goths were a barbarian tribe. Distant cousin to the Visigoths, they traveled Europe dressed in dyed black leather with straps, random bits of lace in their hair, and cheap metal earrings from Claire's. They never sacked Rome, but they did introduce many of the other barbarian tribes to the music of Sisters of Mercy and even let them borrow their copy of Depeche Mode's Violator one weekend. But I digress . . .
I think I still have some working memory of the tacky earrings I bought from Claire's during that time. hell, I think I even have some of the earrings.
There was a spider web that came with a cuff to make it look like more of the web . . . and a spider dangling beneath it!!!!
There was a skull, because of course there was a skull, and at one point it had fake ass rubies for eyes.
There was a little happy rat. The companion earring was two smaller rats kind of dangling.
There was a morning star, because I had no concept that this was more of heavy metal thing.
There was a small chain . . . then a bat . . . then more chain . . . then a bat . . . then more chain . . . then a bigger bat! How I loved that fucking set of bat earrings!!
Wow. Even now, I can remember the pure, unadulterated joy I felt when I found each pair of these earrings. It was like finding fucking identity at this point in my life. To my middle school mind, this was how one became a rock star, possibly even how one became a goddess.
. . . actually, I think I wrote some short story about how those chain then bat then chain then bat etc. earrings really could make one a goddess . . .
Oh yes, Claire's, how you will be missed! You broke open my skin, you helped me get infections, you lead me down the path of childhood tackiness, and you took my money for all of it. Understand though, I say all of this in the spirit of love and gratitude, because you also helped me to find the happy. You helped me to let my imagination run wild.
And as an adult, my association with you serves to keep my humble.
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