Belly buttons are funny lil’ things, aren’t they? Weird, alien-looking scars like something fresh out of Stranger Things. They’re fun to poke but besides that….umm…someone help me out here?

See, that’s the thing. Belly buttons just are. They’re the ultimate chillers. Peacefully meditating on our tums. In their natural forms, pretty comme ci, comme ca. But add a splash of embellishment and you could out-hypnotise Biggie Smalls…

Yes. You guessed it sugar.

I’m talking belly button piercings.

Oh okay, sure – shoving a needle through yours may jeopardise its serenity for a sec – but do I think it’s worth it? Sweet. Rounded. Barbell. It is. A moment of fleeting pain for a lifetime of bliss? Trade off’s truly don’t get better than this. If you pull through, congrats pal, you would have officially gifted yourself with a Belly 2.0.

When I’m A Slave 4 U hit the charts, Cupid’s arrow’s hit my heart. Through love-struck eyes, I saw Britney’s bejewelled belly bar beaming back at me. A decade and a half later, the same amorous fire burns inside of me. My piercing still slays and I still slave…



So when I hear a large gaggle in the office badmouthing belly rings, their words are like an icy needle penetrating the skin.

Fugly, Nasty, Tacky, Vulgar, Vile, Gross, and so their list of pejoratives went On and On to the beat of Erykah Badu’s song. I wanted to offer them Kleenex for the venom gushing out their pores. I get it, one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure but these passions were all too much. Surely this topic doesn’t blow everyone’s heads off faster than a Scotch Bonnet?

I got my belly pierced at the tender age of 15. Childhood infatuation it was not. Back then it was and still is, pure love with meandering harp strings. I practically popped out the womb crying out for one (I was ten after all). The first time I saw one shining sublimely from a tum, I knew I wanted one. Thus the countdown began until I have lucky number 15 and my mum would (begrudgingly) let my heart grow complete.

Once the deed was done I was ecstatic. My mother, less so. She point-blank refused to look at it. It wasn’t until I adopted a severe cough a fortnight later, that faster than a peregrine falcon she was upon me, lifting up my jumper and inspecting my belly. Almost as if I’d grown a magic garden of fungi underneath – sorry to disappoint mum.

Thankfully I can say belly bars don’t make you cough (but apparently coughs do…)


Ear piercings are everywhere, they’re practically oxygen. Nose piercings are now as popular as brunch spots along Northcote Road. Nipple piercings have become du riguer with the likes of Bella, Kendall, Kylie and Riri sporting them. However, the belly piercing earns its seat at the table as the most popular non-facial, bodily piercing. Even if it doesn’t purr fahshion, I love its style.

I love mine so much I’ve actually had mine pierced not once, not twice, but thrice. Oh, I was unwise in my youth. I would wear £1 belly bars probably made from bubble gum and paper clips. Allergies took their hold and my little flower closed its petals on me, not once, but twice.

I tried being sneaky, slipping in a £2.50 bar the next time around (undoubtedly another byproduct of fortified sh*t) – but bellies are very sage souls. I couldn’t believe my ears when mine hollered back to me, ‘Might trick me once, I won’t let you trick me twice’.

Now I treat my belly as I should. Only the finest titanium your most royal midriff, please…

Strong historical evidence suggests way back when, in Ancient Egypt, the belly bar was given special royal status (major props). The Egyptian Royal Court was opulent, exotic and beautiful – so no surprises the belly bar blended right in. Flash forward to modern day culture, the belly bar became deliciously du jour in the noughties. ‘Twas was the golden age of Britney and Beyoncé performing some of their most iconic dance routines, as their navels glistened to the beat.

What most nineties babies probably was missed out was Christy Turlington modelling hers in 1993 originally propelled them back onto the scene. Fellow supermodel Naomi followed suite and as they say, the rest is history…

Like everything though, fashions come and go. By the time I was in my twenties belly bars were on the way out. People were letting theirs close up, mourning their scars which were tell-tell signs of their youthful folly.  If I was to take mine out now, a decade and a half later, it would be like looking at a naked Christmas tree (which would actually, just be a tree- still, sad face).

As I look down at my piercing, nestled serenely in my tummy, I experience the same tender love and adoration a mum might experience for a newborn babe. I feel I will never part with my iridescent opal belly piercing which shines like the stars in the Milky Way galaxy. It’s a sexy and fun extension of myself.

Don’t get me wrong, even for a navel lover like me, chandelier belly bars with the notorious Playboy bunny make me wanna shove my head under a guillotine. Also, no, I don’t relentlessly parade around in crop tops (oh, to relive the uni days…). What I do love, is just knowing it’s there and if I do choose to display it – GOD I’M PROUD!

That’s right belly haters, see ya laters. I love mine and ain’t nobody getting in between it and me (unless you’re a bar, soz).