It’s my own fault, I suppose, for being so unwilling to spend more than a couple of quid on jewellery. Perhaps if my nose studs were more expensive, they’d be less likely to fall apart, bend, and start catching on towels and tissues and things in a potentially painful manner.
I gathered all my equipment (tissues, antiseptic solution, mirror, new nose stud) and looked around at my friends, who’d called in to say hi and been greeted with Operation Insert New Nose Stud, Phase Two. “Here goes,” I announced grimly. Dirk, disinterested, grunted and curled up underneath a blanket, apparently choosing sleep over being supportive. I began to twist and pull at my damaged nose stud.
15 agonising minutes later, the stud was out and my nose was once again Rudolphesque. “OK, so now what?” asked Jay, having watched the whole process with morbid fascination. “Now she puts the new one in!” said E2 with unmerited levels of positivity. “Yes,” I confirmed, less confidently. “Argh!” I squealed 10 minutes later, as I failed yet again to find the exit point on the inside of my nose. Jay, holding the mirror for me, looked horrified at the sight of the stud that was now half-in, half-out of the piercing.
“Dude,” he remarked finally, “are you even capable of taking this as a sign that stabbing yourself in the nose with a piece of sharpened metal is simply not natural?” I glared at him, and he fell silent. “Want me to have a try?” asked E2, sounding characteristically supportive and helpful. Trustingly, I presented her with my nose. She wiggled the nose stud around for a while, and I flinched slightly.
“Oh, I can’t do it! I can’t hurt you! I’m sorry!” cried E2 in a great deal of distress. I sighed and continued alternately stabbing myself in the nose and whimpering in pain. “At least it’s good to know that it’s totally worth it,” said Jay, sounding disgusted. “I’m going home. Good luck, Hails.” He left, most unsupportively.
E2 and I continued with the battle. There was a vague stirring in the corner of the room, as Dirk opened one eye and observed the upsetting scene. “Just twist it,” he growled, half-asleep.
“I can’t twist it,” I snapped, annoyed, “because I can’t get it through to the other side!”
“It’s at an angle, you idiot,” he said calmly, “and if you twist it, it’ll go through.”
I twisted it to prove him wrong, and it went through with no pain, effort or difficulty whatsoever. “Oh,” I said, sheepishly.
Dirk shook his head and went back to sleep.
I hate it when I’m wrong, but more so when I could have been saved a lot of pain by the person who’s right just making the effort to be right half an hour earlier.