I’m a planner. That’s a given. If I’m ever going out with friends, I’ll be the one booking tables for brunch, or it’ll be me who is there super early, sending out frantic WhatsApp messages to everyone when they’re late. I’m honestly a delight to know.
Last week I got it in my head that I was going to get my nose pierced. I’d been umming and ahhing over it for the best part of the last five years, always brushing this off as not being the right time, or not being appropriate. Also, I have a really terrible pain threshold, and don’t particularly enjoy getting injections as I don’t like needles, so paying someone to stab me seemed like a pretty bonkers idea.
I figured that this might actually be a perfect thing to tick off first on my list, as it’s relatively easy. Find a piercing shop, have a nice person stick a needle through my nostril, pop in a stud, leave and continue my day.
And that’s exactly what I did this morning! I convinced one of my best friends from work to come with me, as she wanted her ears pierced, and had promised her we could get brunch afterwards. Within 20 minutes we were both done, with a decent amount of hand squeezing and minimal tears. (My left eye watered, but I am not counting that as crying, no matter what you might think.) Then it was onwards to Cosy Club to watch the storm battering Plymouth from their massive windows.
One day into being 29, and I’ve got 29 things left to do. Will my Mum hate it? Probably. Will she hate it slightly less than me getting a tattoo? Absolutely. Will she come round to me having some more metal in my face? Eventually. I hope.