A Gal Pokes a Hole in the Family Code

There are three holes in my earlobe.
One is a hole made with a piercing gun, one is a hole made with a safety pin, and one is a hole made in the family code.

The first hole I ever made was with a safety pin. Because I poked it through crudely, it’s crooked. If I had known it would turn out like this, I should have just used a piercing gun from the start, so why on earth did I ever use a safety pin?

Now, I only wear earrings on days when I have special plans. Every time I feel that dull ache, I remember who I was back then.

Looking back, I remember wearing frilly lace socks as far back as I can recall.

My mother would often scold me, saying, "You are a young lady, after all," so there was a part of me that unconditionally believed, "I see, so I am a young lady."

So, keep your shoes neatly aligned. It’s unladylike to squat with your legs spread. You never know who might be watching...

—Being a young lady is such a pain!
I gradually started to think that way. I felt like I was the only one always getting scolded compared to my siblings, but looking back now, I think it was all just common sense for a person. Even so, I made a huge misunderstanding that I was being scolded because I was a "young lady."

The clothes I was forced to wear were tight and hard to move in. Piano lessons and flower arranging were boring and made me fidgety. I wanted to go to the candy store and play with firecrackers.

It was when I was in elementary school, starting to feel uncomfortable with the gap between what I wore and who I was inside, that Heisei gals took the era by storm.

They were the exact opposite of demure—strong girls who wouldn't fawn over anyone and wouldn't bend. Their sharp, thin eyebrows looked like resistance against the powerful, and their bright hair looked like rebellion against the rules. I couldn't help but be dazzled by that group of girls in loose socks who always seemed to be laughing and having fun.

This is it.
I’m not a young lady; I’m better suited to be a gal. My sloppy personality, the way I can't sit still, the feeling that as long as it's fun, it's fine. Besides, if I became a gal, I might be able to fend off not just my parents' nagging, but even unreasonable adults. If I were a gal, maybe I could clearly say "No" when I didn't like something. Or rather, if I were a gal, maybe I wouldn't have to face such absurd situations.

I decided. I am absolutely going to be a gal.
My young self dreamed of being a gal.

Saying I went to a high school with loose rules to become a gal sounds nice, but the truth is that it was the only place I could get into. On the day of the entrance ceremony, seniors with hair many tones lighter than mine looked down at the freshmen from the school building as if sizing us up. The senior who had been covered in piercings since middle school and had pushed me down the stairs was at the same high school. The moment I spotted her, I lowered my eyes and looked at my own loose socks.

My loose socks were only 90cm long. Compared to my ideal gal image, the volume was a bit lacking. My skin was pale, and I didn't have any piercings. Most of all, being a gal didn't feel natural on my body yet.

But it’s okay. It’ll come in time. Someday, I should be able to look that mean senior in the eye, stick up my middle finger, and make a face at her. After all, I’m a gal.

My parents turned a blind eye to me becoming somewhat flashy. Unlike my excellent siblings, when they didn't recommend middle school entrance exams for me, they said, "It's fine as long as you can find what you love." Because studies aren't everything, they said. That surely must have meant "I accept you no matter who you are," but at the time, I took it as resignation. I was the one who realized most that I was somehow different.

My parents added, "You can do whatever you like for the most part. But you must never, ever get a piercing." I remember that being the only thing they told me with strange intensity.

When I took the plunge into the gal world, it was a brighter and livelier world than I had imagined. Friends with colorful hair, skin, and eyes that made my eyes dazzle. I gradually lengthened my loose socks to match those around me, and my makeup became flashier. Even someone as bad with words as me could get by with "That's funny" or "That's hype," and I could just laugh off anything unpleasant or any tales of misfortune.

Because I chose the same high school, the bullying from the senior continued, and I was still a pathetic gal who would nervously look down in front of her, but even taking that into account, I felt that being myself among the gals was the best, and I loved it.

But—
When I got into a bicycle accident, I wasn't bright or strong at all, not even a little bit.

That day, I was riding my bike dressed in full gal style. On my way to the parking lot, the door of a parked car suddenly opened, and I crashed into it and went flying. As I lay on the asphalt, blinking in confusion, a woman got out of the driver's seat, shouting.

The woman was furious, her eyebrows arched even higher than mine. It started with "What are you going to do about this?" and continued with "You look ridiculous," "What kind of school do you go to?" and "I want to see what your parents look like." I was showered with verbal abuse completely unrelated to the accident. She was a master of insults that I, who lived my life on the two phrases "That's funny" and "That's hype," could never hope to match. As for me, I just stood there, frozen, as the other party in the accident interrogated me one-sidedly and hurled abuse at me. Standing on the side of the road with my head down, I shook my loose socks just as I did when I faced a mean upperclassman. The elastic was popping out of the loose socks, and they were worn out and black, looking pathetic.

The fact that I couldn't do anything or say anything when it really mattered disappointed me deeply. It was lame. I was so lame that I felt embarrassed. Wasn't I supposed to flip the bird and stick my tongue out at unreasonable things?

I felt with the intensity unique to adolescence that I had to change something. No matter how long I made my loose socks, they were too light to serve as weights to train myself.

──That's it, I'll tan my skin!
I'll go from a white gal to a black gal. Darker skin looks stronger, right? I'm weak and get pushed around because I'm pale. The moment I decided that, I went straight to a tanning salon and tanned my skin using the "strong" setting.

……I got inflamed.

My whole body, including my face, ended up in a terrible state. My butt, in particular, was covered in blisters, making it impossible to sit down. My family laughed at me, and when I went to the dermatologist, they told me it was basically a burn and declared, "You're the type who doesn't get tan, you just get spots."

──Damn it. In that case, piercings! I'll pierce my ears!
After the fourth-period class, I headed to the shoe lockers with a friend. We sat on the wooden slats beneath the rows of lockers. When I took out my leopard-print mirror, safety pin, and lighter, my friend marked my earlobe with a red pen.

"Around here, maybe?"
"Let's put an eraser behind it."
"I heard heating it with a lighter disinfects it."

After checking the position in the mirror, I drove the red-hot safety pin into my earlobe. I couldn't tell if it was hot or painful. All the pain receptors in my body were concentrating on my ear. Even when I pushed hard, my fingers would slip, and because I have thick earlobes, the needle wouldn't go through, but I could hear a tearing sound right next to my ear, so I knew the needle was gradually advancing. If I had used a piercing gun, it would have been over in a second, but it was around the end of the fifth period by the time the safety pin finally pierced through and was snapped shut. I felt strangely excited. I had finally pierced my body.

Every time my right ear throbbed in sync with my heartbeat, I bit my lower lip and smirked. After school, I walked through my front gate, hiding my ear with my golden hair.

For a while, I couldn't look my parents in the eye. If I looked them in the eye, they would surely find out. The sense of immorality and exhilaration regarding the "act of piercing one's body," which was a family code I was strictly forbidden from breaking, mixed with guilt, and I didn't have the confidence to hide it at all.

Days of going straight from the entrance to my room continued. I just had to hope they wouldn't find out before the hole healed. My parents, who had forgiven me no matter how flashy I got, might not forgive me this time. I might make them sad. Even so, there was a reason that I absolutely had to pierce it.

Every time I pulled the safety pin in and out, there was a rotten smell coming from my ear. I sniffed it repeatedly, saying, "Gross." I figured if I was going to pierce them, two at once would be better than one, so I used a piercing gun for my left ear, which was easy. It was so anticlimactic that I even felt the safety pin method was the right one. A second of pain isn't enough for me to betray someone.

Once the piercing hole was completely formed and it was no longer possible for it to close naturally, I tried hanging a huge hoop earring from it. It slanted only on the right side, but it suited my blonde hair well. Wanting to show it off to someone, I snuck out of the house and went to the arcade at night. Even if no one was looking at me, the version of me reflected in the UFO catcher glass was close to the gal image I had been seeking. I felt like I wouldn't be afraid of anyone messing with me now.

Under the moonlight, I quietly opened the house gate while swinging my earring. The sliding door creaked, and the dog barked. Maybe the dog could smell the adrenaline.
"Who's there?"
My father woke up. My night out and my piercing were discovered at the same time, and he climbed on top of me and slapped my cheek. The dog barked even more.

When I held my slapped cheek and raised the corners of my mouth while crying, I was scolded even more for not being repentant. The more my parents got angry, the deeper my conviction grew. This was a purification ritual worthy of changing my life. The slap even sounded like a blessing. There was no way nothing would change after enduring this much pain.

My mother sent my favorite 120cm loose socks to a famous fortune teller to have them exorcised. Praying that her daughter would return to her senses and stop hurting herself anymore.

I, who had gone to such lengths to pierce my ear, then became dramatically stronger and brighter... if only that were true, but it seems people don't change because of things like that. The closer I got to the strong, bright gal I admired as a child, the more I realized I couldn't become that.

Even so, just as I was starting to accept myself as a gal on the outside, my brother dyed his hair brown and got a piercing. My parents said nothing.

Wait, you're not going to say anything?!
I was disappointed that the family code, which had been forced open by their daughter, had become so flimsy. Come to think of it, I was raised by being slapped several times, but my brother and sister had never been hit once. My family laughs and says, "That's because your behavior is bad," but I wonder if that's true.

I protested to my brother, who easily passed through the hole I had forced open, saying, "That's unfair!" but by then, my brother was already a university student. There was no way he would listen to what his little sister had to say.

I was the one who poked a hole in the family code. I poked a third hole as if to claim an achievement. That’s how it should be, but honestly, I barely remember that moment. Who I was with, where I poked it, or even if it hurt—it’s all vague. The piercing, which was such a huge incident, had somehow become something I didn't even need to remember. My parents, as expected, said nothing.

I never want to think it was thanks to having my loose socks exorcised, but that abnormal feeling of 'this isn't good enough' gradually faded with time.

More than 20 years have passed since then, and those three holes still assert their presence on my ears. Despite going through all that, I’ve now developed a metal allergy and can no longer wear my favorite earrings. Is it a curse from a fortune teller that they get inflamed if I force them through? Maybe I was struck by karma.

The first hole I poked in my right ear still remains crooked. On special occasions, even though I know it will get inflamed, I put an earring through it to lift my spirits. This hole is not proof that I became strong, but rather the sloppy construction site of a girl who was convinced she could become strong.

But that sloppiness, the pain, the family code, and the exorcised loose socks—now, I can think of it all as 'hilarious.' I was a proper gal, enough to be able to laugh and say that.