My tragic life

For many years I have truly believed that if a dictionary definition of the perfect child were to be created, it would have to consist of just one word – Nora.

I spent my childhood being adorable and polite while also mastering the art of never crying or embarrassing my parents, and my youth mostly consisted of listening to heavy metal and wishing I had the guts to be 'cool', all while averaging B’s at school and volunteering to be a Friendly Face. Little did I know that at the age of 18 I would finally be a cool kid, but in a way that would come back to bite me in the ass some 3 years later. Being cool was also going to really, really hurt.

It was a cold November day when, still in the midst of a caffeine rush, I dragged my friend to a nearby tattoo studio and exclaimed “I'm going to have my septum pierced!” Tell me what 18 year old wouldn't consider a facial piercing that is easily disguised as the perfect way to rebel against their parents? Armed with false promises of a pain free stab to the nose I went into the tiny room excited to finally have my secret revenge on parents for making me take a GCSE in Science as opposed to Drama. Needless to say, I came back in excruciating pain and crying while clutching my friend’s hand. I had, after all just been stabbed in the nose with a needle big enough to knit with. But take that, mum and dad!  

After a few days of soreness I proudly displayed my new piece of jewellery whenever I or my parents left the house, though it quickly lost its appeal once I figured out that one could not simply just blow their nose any more. Having a piece of metal positioned inside your nose was also kind of a major inconvenience when it came to sneezing or swimming, but maybe the worst bit was the way my nose would constantly tingle in winter. 

Flash forward 3 years to that fateful visit home when my mother, the magpie, caught a glimpse of the shiny metal up my nose. While she cried hysterically in her room about my tragic defacement, my father helpfully mooed as he chased me around the house with a camera shouting “Let me get a photo for grandma! She loves livestock!” 

For weeks my parents berated me to family and friends, at times even introducing me as “My lovely daughter and part time farm animal, Nora. We brought her to this country so that she would have the opportunity to make herself look like a cow”. 

By that time I had long ago disposed of my nose jewellery and had began enjoying the little things in life such as being able to use a tissue without unintentionally stabbing myself or sharing a kiss with my boyfriend that did not result in a piece of metal hanging out of my nose like a shiny bogey. However, the satisfaction and pride of having finally stuck it to my scary, Eastern European parents was still there, just as strong and fresh as when that needle first went through my nose. Just a little less inconvenient during flu season. 

In hindsight, I learnt an important lesson. Putting shrapnel inside your nose doesn't make you cool, you'll always be the socially awkward, slightly gothic loser you always were...