Finding a Silver Lining in a Gold Nose Stud

January 13, 2023 Simone Ellin, Associate Editor

Perhaps it’s because I’m a woman of a certain age — all right, I’m 60 — but recently I’ve been bombarded with Facebook posts about 1980s supermodel Paulina Porizkova.

Apparently, the 57-year-old who has the body of a 20-year-old has been criticized for posting photographs of herself in a bikini on Instagram. As one critic put it, “A woman of 57 is too old to pose in a bikini no matter what she looks like because old is ugly.”

As a result of comments such as that, Porizkova now finds herself a spokesperson for what some are calling the #gray pride movement. In my opinion, the movement is way overdue.

In a culture where most of us are appropriately concerned about stigmatizing others, in which racism, homophobia, gender bias and ableism are rightly taboo, ageism continues to be tolerated almost without exception.

This is especially true when it comes to older women. While men are considered distinguished as they age, women are “crones.” We’re told how to style our hair to “take 10 years off”; to use lotions, creams and makeup products that supposedly will make us look more youthful; and advised about what to wear so that we don’t look ridiculous.

And God forbid we still think of ourselves as sexual beings. Old is not sexy, we’re constantly reminded.

In our culture, it’s fine to call older people “cute,” “clueless,” and “demented.” We should “act our age,” we’re told and learn to “age gracefully” — code for fade into the background, keep our mouths shut and get ready to die.

I’m sick of all these messages, yet I know that I’m as guilty as the next person when it comes to ageism. I’m ageist regarding people who are older than me, and I’m especially ageist when it comes to myself. Turning 60 in June was painful to say the least. How did this happen to me, I asked myself. I was ashamed of my age — as if there was anything I could have done about it — and I didn’t want people to know that I was 60.

Still, there was a part of me that yearned to accept myself, wrinkles, extra pounds, gray roots and all. I wanted to unlock the shackles that society and my own biases placed on me; to say “F—k you” to a culture that was ready to write me off long before I was ready to go.

I had long admired my daughter’s nose stud. She had her nose pierced during her first year of college, and I thought it looked sexy and chic. Yet at that time, when I was just 52, I figured I was too old for a nose stud. What would people think?

But the desire to pierce my nose never left me. As I neared my 60^th birthday in June, I began to think again about piercing my nose. I told people close to me that I was considering the piercing, and most of them were supportive.

Still, I kept putting it off. I read that swimming with a new piercing was dangerous, and that some people develop cystic acne after nose piercings. I thought maybe I wouldn’t go through with the piercing after all.

Then last weekend, I visited my daughter Xandra in Brooklyn. We spent the day together celebrating her 26^th birthday. We ate, shopped and finally ended up at a piercing and tattoo parlor in Park Slope, a very gentrified part of Brooklyn where I lived when Xandra was born.

When I told the woman behind the counter that I was interested in getting my nose pierced, I expected her to laugh or look at me like I was crazy. But she didn’t do that. She just asked me to look at their jewelry to see what type of nose stud I wanted.

I chose a simple 14-karat gold stud and waited my turn. I was anxious but excited. The woman behind the counter who had multiple piercings and tattoos turned out to be almost 50 herself. She told me about an 85-year-old woman who had recently come into the store asking for a tattoo. The woman said that her husband died a while back. He was always against tattoos.

Now that he was gone, she was determined to get one. When it came time for her to choose the design for her tattoo, she chose one that said, “F—k off.” I guessed that was her way of saying, “I’m 85 and can do whatever the F–k I want!”

After waiting about 20 minutes, I was called in to the back area of the shop to have my piercing. Xandra accompanied me for moral support. The man who pierced my nose was tall, handsome, professional and heavily pierced. I felt like I was in good hands.

The piercing was painful but only for a split-second. It was over before I knew it. My technician showed me a reflection of myself in a hand mirror. There it was, a simple gold stud on the left side of my nostril. I liked it. My daughter squealed with delight. “It looks really good, Mom,” she said.

“It suits you,” said the piercing guy.

We paid and left the store to walk to a restaurant for dinner. I liked the way the cold air felt on my newly bejeweled nose.