Meet the sadist challenging Czechia's baby ear-piercing tradition

Through an unmarked door in a Holešovice courtyard, up a narrow staircase adorned with folk art and concert posters, is the entrance to Hell. Once inside, you’ll find no dim, sticky-floored Prague club but an oasis of sterile instruments, encased jewelry, and natural light.

Hell is a piercing studio, the domain of Míla Bugtcher, a self-proclaimed piercer, modifier, and sadist, and a sought-after master of two very different domains: highly complex genital piercings and the delicate task of piercing the ears of infant girls.

He is also quick to tell you that one of these practices is based on consent and the other is not. “Body modification should always be a voluntary thing,” Míla says. 

Infant ear piercing holds a uniquely institutionalized status in Czech society, rooted in a pragmatic history. It's a practice Míla, an unlikely critic, has spent years challenging, not by refusing to perform it, but by educating parents, the public, and anyone who will listen about safer, consensual approaches to body modification.

“If you are six months old, you cannot say anything because you are only interested in your mother’s boob. It is the only thing you know. You cannot agree to it.”

Míla developed his trade at the dawn of the craft during the underground early 1990s, when information was scarce and early piercers experimented on themselves, using basic kitchen ovens for dry-heat sterilization.

“Twenty years ago, our clients were strictly punks,” Míla says. “Now, earlobes and basic cartilage still make up about 50 percent of our business, but we have women in their 50s and 60s coming in. Their kids are grown up, and they want to spend time and resources on themselves.”

Trends fluctuate rapidly. Septum piercings have surged in popularity, though they require immense technical skill to pierce straight.

Today, the industry is transitioning into a highly regulated professional field, and the Czech government is actively using Míla, who worked in the surgery department at Bulovka Hospital in Prague, as an official consultant helping to rewrite national health regulations governing the industry.

But while piercing has evolved into a modern profession, Míla has spent much of his career questioning the deeply rooted Czech tradition of piercing the ears of baby girls, a practice many parents continue because of cultural expectations rather than personal choice.

Infant ear piercing holds a uniquely institutionalized status in Czech society, rooted in a pragmatic history.

A 2021 study traced the tradition back to a time when Czech babies of both genders were dressed in identical white gowns. With few visual differences between boys and girls, pierced ears became a way to mark a child’s gender.

While the practice has become less common in many parts of Europe as conversations around bodily autonomy have evolved, in Czechia, it remains a deeply normalized tradition with many grandparents continuing the custom by buying a newborn granddaughter her first pair of gold earrings. 

For mothers who choose to wait, the decision can still provoke surprise, or even family pressure. A common cultural complaint from older Czechs when a baby girl lacks jewelry is: “But how will anyone know she’s a girl?”

A Masaryk University study on body integrity and parental rights argues that infant ear piercing raises questions of consent because it involves a permanent alteration performed on someone unable to decide for themselves. Yet because the practice is so normalized, it is rarely questioned in Czech society.

Despite his philosophical opposition to infant piercing, Míla has personally performed thousands of them. Customers come from as far as Ostrava to use his careful services.

“I don’t like doing baby piercings,” he admits. “But I do them properly because I have seen too many horror stories and infections from girls whose ears were botched in hospitals or by people who simply don't care. If it has to happen, I want to ensure it is done with surgical precision and safe materials.”

Entering his piercing room, it’s easy to see a master in his kingdom. Classic musical chimes fill the space, needles glint from plastic wrappers, and titanium earrings are meticulously organized into tiny drawers that cover an entire wall. You won’t find a piercing gun, commonly used in malls and some pediatric offices.

“The piercing gun is one of the most dangerous tools in this business ever invented,” he says bluntly. “A professional piercer uses a single-use, ultra-sharp needle that slides through quickly and cleanly. But a piercing gun fires a blunt jewelry stud. Imagine trying to cut fresh meat with a spork, you just destroy and crush the tissue.”

Baby earrings are not the only thing that gets under Míla’s skin. Social media has flooded the market with cheap piercing offers in deceptively polished settings, creating another challenge for an industry trying to professionalize.

The trend has even prompted recent warnings from Czech hygiene officials, which stress not only sterile equipment and qualified providers, but also open communication with clients.

Hell ticks all of those boxes, especially when it comes to communication. Míla is incredibly vocal about it, even when honesty means losing a customer.

Czech law sets no specific age limit for tattoos or piercings. Instead, it relies on general consent rules, taking into account a minor’s maturity and the nature of the procedure. With no clear legal threshold for body modifications, many studios, including Hell, require parental consent until 18.

But Míla and his team will outright reject modifications that could wreak havoc on a young person’s life or hiring prospects, regardless of whether they have parental permission.

He recalls a time a 17-year-old boy walked into the shop accompanied by his fully consenting mother, asking for matching machine gun tattoos right on the teenager’s face. Míla sent them away.

For babies, however, the decision rests entirely with parents, which is where critics raise questions about the ongoing practice.

For Míla, consent is the foundation of ethical body modification, especially when the person in the chair is young. That philosophy has even led to his pioneering “piercing parties” for young girls to reframe the experience.

“I work with them in groups,” Míla explains. “And I never promise them that it won't hurt, because if you say that, you lie. I tell them directly: ‘Okay, it will hurt. It’s not a debate. But it’s just a funny kind of pain.’”

The group setting allows the girls to cheer each other on, turning a scary event into an empowering shared milestone.

“In these cases, the youngsters are my customers, not their parents,” he says. “The parents might support them and pay for it, but I talk directly to the kids. If they look at me and say they don't want it, I stop. I don't do it.”

Míla believes facing the fear voluntarily helps a child grow. “You are afraid of something, you face it, and you pass it. You feel like a queen.”