She brushed her hair back in a flourish … over her ear. Something glimmered. And sparkled.
Gasp! Are those …
I do notice things, even though I’m just an oblivious male, the type of species that has gone hours before recognizing its own body parts are on fire. Hey! It was easy to miss. There was a basketball game one!
But I had noticed this.
Are those … Are Those … ARE THOSE … EARRINGS!?!
And a range – a whole rainbow! – of emotions ran through me. Shock and surprise. (OMG! There’s shiny metal sticking through your lobes.) Excitement. Bewilderment. Pain (OMG! Who hurt my baby!?!) Concern. (OMG! Tell me you didn’t let a friend named “Cooter” do this with instruments from his geometry set!)
My 13-year-old daughter had come strutting into my office, model-like, and flipped her hair back. Whoosh! Bazam! ZAP!
I think my exact reaction was in no particular order: Hand slapped over mouth. Loud squeal emitted like electrocuted howler monkey. Fell back in seat. Regained consciousness … repeat.
Shock and surprise. Excitement. Bewilderment … and one I couldn’t put my finger on. What was it? Something akin to …
Loss.
I’ve never had a problem with my daughter getting earrings. I come from a Latin family where most girls are born wearing big, gold hoops. Full-size parrots could ride around in them. If you ever needed a hula hoop, no problem! Kids getting earrings was never a big deal in my eyes because they were just little KIDS with shiny things dangling from their ears. Like glitter on the end of a tiny vampire stake.
But this kid no longer looked like a “kid.” She now looked like a “people.” Like she could be asking for the keys to the car so she could go sign some mortgage papers or pick up a few things at the grocery store to make a meal for her husband and children and old man father who had to be plopped in an adult high chair so he wouldn’t drool on the floor.
Forget how cool a surprise it was. Or how good they looked on her. Earrings made her look so … grown-up. This wasn’t a girl any longer. This was a miniature adult.
Grown-up? What a silly word, isn’t it? Because it’s not really true. If it were all about height, we parents would be OK. Truthfully, it’s “grown-out” that we struggle with. Grown-gone. Grown-see-ya. Grown-it’s-been-good-but-I’m-outta’-here. Grown-away.
How could little surgical steel spikes with shiny nobs on the ends mean so much more?
I swallowed all of that for the time-being and asked a bunch of giddy questions: Did it hurt? Were you nervous? Did you watch? Did you get a tattoo because there was a two-for-one special going on? Wait a minute … you went to a tattoo parlor?!!?
And this one: “Do you feel different now?
“No. Not really,” she said. “It feels a little funny, but no big deal.”
Hmm. Yeah. Well … you just wait, sister. Wait until you’re on the other side of the glittery vampire stake. Looking at your own grown-up and trying not to pass out at the thought of it.