The New York Times Magazine, January 22, 1995:

Six months ago, my 13-year-old daughter announced that she wanted to get a belly-button pierce.... I said: "This is a big step. Why not wait until your birthday. If you still want it then, we'll make it a birthday gift." Her birthday was six months away. She agreed.

On her birthday, Lauren didn't mention the pierce, and in the manner of parents throughout history who fantasize a different reality for their kids than actually exists, I entertained the notion that she might have forgotten about it or changed her mind. This notion was dispelled the very next day.

"Dad, O.K., here's the thing. I made an appointment at Gauntlet in San Francisco tomorrow at 4. I have to bring a picture ID. You have to bring a picture ID, too, and it has to show that we have the same last name.

Gauntlet? I had visions of knights wielding oversize lances.

The next day I drove Lauren, her sister, Bonnie, and a friend, Felicia (along for moral support), to the Castro district in San Francisco, home of Gauntlet. I sent the girls in ahead of me while I parked the car. By the time I arrived, Lauren had taken care of everything except producing me and my ID. A self-possessed and professional young woman introduced herself: "My name is Denise and I'll be doing your piercing today."

Along with her confident demeanor and apparent intelligence, Denise had a nose pierce. She may also have had a belly-button pierce, but who knew? She had a calming effect on me. If someone this together could be a piercer, how bad could it be?...

Denise took charge, talking soothingly to Lauren as she daubed her with antiseptic, marked the spot, clamped it with the forceps and, in a flash, pierced the skin next to the belly button and popped a ring in. She was so smooth and it went so quickly that I momentarily forgot my nervousness.

After a few minutes we marched into another alcove to see a video on pierce care.

This is a scene my parents could never have envisioned: dad and daughter watching a half-naked man demonstrate the proper care of a nipple pierce. Yet, there I was gobbling down pierce-care hints, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Then it hit me: this was normal. Not 1950's normal, but maybe 1990's normal. The circumstances and changed but not the child-parent dynamic. Though I hadn't realized it, I was there to bless Lauren as she grew away from me, to respect and trust her as she forged her own identity. It left me wondering just who had been pierced.

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