Getting my ears pierced as a 9 year old was a rite of passage.  My mom had said over and over that my ears could be pierced when I turned 10, but she surprised me one day a few months shy of my birthday and suggested we go.

We drove across town to the mini mall attached to the grocery store.  I walked through the wide doorway into the beauty salon where my mom visited to keep up with the tight permanent curls on her short hair and my bob was regularly trimmed.  Mom had called ahead on the hot southern Ohio afternoon so we were met by a young stylist sporting a shag mullet with a slim pink scarf tied around her neck. She sat me down in her spinney stylist chair and marked each of my ears with the tiniest of dots from a brown tipped marker.  In mere moments I had surgical steel posted golden stars proudly adorning each of my ears.

For weeks I was happy to dab an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on my ears and twirl each earring around in its hole.  I knew this would stave off infection and keep the holes in my ears from closing up.  I also knew it would open up a much wider, more glamorous life of earrings for me.

My jump into fashionable earrings didn’t take long.  Several weeks after my ears had been pierced, my grandparents came to visit from Florida.  In the search for something to do on a broiling afternoon we all loaded into my mom’s tiny car and headed to an indoor flea market. Once there my older brother scattered in search of a stall of baseball cards he’d heard about.  I stuck with my mom and grandparents as they perused collection after collection of chachkies, lamps, and tableware.

My eyes lit up at the sight of a table with neon bracelets, plastic charm necklaces, and fingerless white mesh gloves.  As I scanned the table of treasures, my grandma bent toward me and smiled as she whispered, “If you see something you like I’ll buy it for you.”

“Thanks, Grandma.” My eyes went wide with delight and a little relief knowing I wouldn’t have to dig through my outdated Minnie Mouse wallet to scrape together the few funds I had from doing chores to make a purchase. 

Suddenly, from the rear corner of the table of delights before me I spied them hanging from a wire rack.

Red metallic beaded dangly earrings.

Shaped like small shiny blankets hanging from silver posts, I picked them up and cradled them in the palm of my hand, marveling at their gloriousness.

“Can I get these?”

“Sure!” My grandma handed me the money and moved on to another table of knick knacks.

Back at home I rushed to my room to try on my new baubbles.  No sooner had I traded my gold studded star earrings for my red dangly treasures than I also slipped on a pair of dress up high heeled strappy sandals, pulled my shirt down over one shoulder, and grabbed a hair brush to sing along to Madonna’s latest song on my record player. 

I danced.  I sang. I strutted to the music while watching myself in full length mirror hanging from the back of back of my closed bedroom door. In those moments I was Madonna.  The earrings seemed to have magically transformed me into a strong, independent girl setting the world on fire until it was time for dinner and I snapped the record player off. 

Now I’m at an age where hot afternoons and high heels mean something entirely different. They mean a special occasion and a time consuming effort to level myself up from youth football games, several hours of administrative work, and folding laundry. Blaring girl power music happens on the rare occasions I’m in the car by myself between short commutes to grocery stores, school pick up lines, and my part time job.   What is different now that I didn’t know back then is that I am strong and independent. I can chose to be anyone I want to be at any moment and I don’t need the dangly earrings to do it….or maybe sometimes I still I do.