Zibby Mag

By Samantha Hart

Attending boarding school six thousand feet above sea level, in the postcard-worthy mountain setting of Idyllwild, California, was not my dream — it was my daughter, Vignette’s.

The romance of high school at Idyllwild Arts Academy — a 200-acre sprawling campus in the San Jacinto Mountains within driving distance from our home in L.A. — was irresistible to her. Vignette would be able to spend all of her free time pursuing her art within the boundaries of the academy’s campus instead of having me shuffle her around town. It was an easy decision for her to step into a pair of hiking boots, throw on an overcoat, and adopt me as her pen-pal.

Though I knew I would miss her terribly, there was a bonus for me in all of this: with her being away in boarding school, I would finally have free time to write. Little did I know that Vignette’s homesickness would have me driving back and forth from Idyllwild almost every weekend. During winter, this often required putting snow chains on my car, and more than once had me snaking my way down the mountain only to slam into a snowbank. I had little time for anything beyond my job and riding the rollercoaster of my daughter’s high-school dramas.

I’d have to put a pin in the idea of writing.

During her senior year, Vignette announced that she wanted to pierce her nose and get a tattoo. She felt her image wasn’t edgy enough to reflect the budding artist she imagined herself entering Berklee College of Music in Boston. She thought she’d need a bit of armor to face the rigors of college life.

“Haven’t you faced a lot these past few years at boarding school? Why do you think you need a tattoo and nose piercing for college?” I asked.

“Maybe I don’t need it. But wouldn’t it be cool if we did it together as a mother-daughter bonding experience?”

I wanted to say “No,” but Vignette knows me well enough to know that I’d turn to putty at the first mention of mother-daughter bonding.

In the final months of Vignette’s senior year, she waxed on about her future — which somehow always seemed to come back to being pierced and tattooed, something that would connect us forever. Wasn’t her belly button enough?

Before long, we were on the cusp of summer. Vignette would be graduating soon, inching us closer to the day I hoped she would forget about. After the ceremony, she spent a few weeks reuniting with life at home, off the mountain, before announcing one morning that the time had come.

“You aren’t scared, are you?” she taunted.

“Of course not.”

During morning yoga, deep into pigeon pose, I became emotional, anticipating this fateful bond. We would celebrate a new “ring” on the tree of life — or at least “studs” on the end of our noses. (Thankfully, I’d bought us some more time with the tattoos.)

I pulled up in front of “House of Freaks” on Melrose Boulevard and plopped a couple of quarters into the meter. We walked up the long flight of stairs hand in hand and announced that we wanted “mother-daughter” piercings.

She suggested I go first.

Before I knew what was happening, I was stretched out on a table in the backroom of a tattoo parlor, getting ready for a man with sad eyes, ten eyebrow piercings, and a steel bar through his septum to put a hole in my face.

“Did it hurt having your nose pierced?” I asked.

“The piercing hurt a little, but what hurts more is that my mom disowned me over it.”

“That’s incredible!” I replied. “Over a nose piercing?”

“Yeah,” he offered with a shrug. “It’s cool that you’re getting pierced with your daughter.”

Vignette sensed I was scared because she held my hand and giggled. Then I started laughing too. At that moment, I realized how very complex the cycle of life is. I gave birth to her, and I saw her grow up; Vignette will see me grow old, but we’ll have plenty of experiences along the way. This nose piercing was merely one of them.

Before I knew what was happening, I was stretched out on a table in the backroom of a tattoo parlor, getting ready for a man with sad eyes, ten eyebrow piercings, and a steel bar through his septum to put a hole in my face.

At the moment of impact, my eyes flooded with water and my whole face stung. I felt like a pig trussed for Christmas dinner as the metal snaked through the tissue of my nostril with a crunching sound, spiraling up past my septum. Vignette looked like she was going to faint. I felt like I was going to burst into tears but didn’t want to frighten her.

When it was over, I got off the table slowly and gazed down my nose at the big silver ball and then looked into a mirror and laughed. Vignette laughed too — sort of — and then she said nervously, “I changed my mind. I don’t think I want to get a piercing!”

I wondered if my nose piercing looked stupid. Why else did Vignette change her mind? I was relieved she no longer wanted to do it, but I questioned my sanity for not balking at this awful pain and sporting a giant ball on the side of my nose.

“Could I get a smaller diamond or something a little less prominent?” I asked.

“That’s just the training stud. Once it heals, you can get whatever you like,” Sad Eyes said as I handed over my credit card.

We paid and exited down the long stairwell. I held onto the handrail, trying to steady my gaze, as all I could see was the shiny silver ball.

As we pulled away from the curb, Vignette burst into tears.

“Why are you crying? I’m the one in pain here,” I said.

“Because I’m a scaredy-cat!!” She sniffled between little gasps of air. “I’ll never be strong like you.”

“This isn’t being strong. And you can always change your mind and come back tomorrow, or even next year. You don’t have to decide about anything today. You can put a pin in it,” I said, before realizing that was precisely what just happened to my face.

Once home, Vignette ran to her room. I left her alone and tried to keep myself from touching my fresh wound. In a little while, she came out and announced, “You know, Mom, I’m glad I didn’t pierce my nose because I think people would judge me by it, or think they know who I am. That’s not something I need at seventeen. You can get away with it because people already respect you. They know you’re cool.”

I stopped obsessing over the giant silver ball. Somehow, over the past seventeen years, Vignette grew up, and so did I. I wasn’t conscious of it. It just happened. I realized that “growing up” with my daughter is what kept us so close. I also realized that there was still a lot of growth to come.

As the summer evenings became shorter, bringing us closer to Vignette’s move to Boston for college, I eventually removed the silver stud. I contemplated replacing it with a diamond but decided the occasional blemish was the only adornment I needed.

The tiny hole isn’t visible. But Vignette and I will always know it’s there.

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Samantha Hart found her calling in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles, holding numerous high-profile positions in music, film, and advertising, as a senior creative executive. She has won awards for creative direction, copywriting, and design. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, James, and their sons Davis and Denham. Sam’s daughter, Vignette, lives near Boston with her husband and two daughters. Hart is the author of the memoir Blind Pony: As True A Story As I Can Tell.