I love scars. In my eyes they make a person about 20% more attractive, depending on the location and the story behind it. Like a scar on your knee you got falling over playing football = like 5% hotter, a scar on your face you got fighting a tiger = like whoa 40% hotter. When James Franco had half his face blown off in Spiderman 3, I genuinely thought it was a great movie for a while. Even with the whole bad-Spidey-fringe thing.
I have very few scars. I’m clumsy and constantly injured, but I must heal like a slow Wolverine because my wounds, while frequent, rarely leave a lasting impression. This is probably for the best, because they would not have good stories behind them. I don’t ever want somebody to tenderly cup my face and ask “How did you get that scar?”, for me to then reply “I hit myself in the head with a plug.”
I currently have a mark on my knee, which I’m hoping will clear up before I have to tell a curious knee-oogler “I literally fell out the castle door.”
Scars are remnants of stories, some good, most rubbish.
To tell my life story through my scars would go something like this.
Chickenpox, acne, can’t remember, cutting a bagel, cutting a bagel, cutting a bagel, burnt myself on the oven, burnt myself on the oven, got stabbed by a robber, sliding along the floor in my socks, can’t remember, falling down the stairs, falling up the stairs, falling out the castle door, drunk bitch stood on my foot, I stood on a nail in a paddling pool.
The chickenpox scar is a circular dent in the middle of my forehead, very similar to the ones everyone has on their arms from the meningitis jab, which I didn’t mention because boring. But the one on my head looks like I had a small unicorn horn amputated and, even cooler, LEONARDO DICAPRIO HAS THE SAME ONE. Seriously, look it up.
I have many scars on my fingers from holding a bagel and absentmindedly slicing through my finger. Slice my finger once, shame on me. Slice my finger three times, still shame on me because goddammit my fingers have always been in the same place how could I cut them up while making lunch.
Ditto burning myself on the oven, but I will never learn not to slide across a smooth floor in socks.
Getting stabbed by a robber is pretty much how it sounds, and the scars are way less prominent than the bagel ones.
The scar on my foot is the worst one, probably. It looks like a crescent moon and has tiny red spidery broken veins around it. It happened about 6 years ago, I think, and I still remember how much it hurt. Tread softly because you tread on my FUCKING FOOT. Still, it’s kind of occult looking. I could tell people I’m some sort of chosen one, rather than “some cow stood on me then carried on dancing to Usher.”
I want to say something profound about how my scars remind me of the fragility of the human race or something, but they don’t. They don’t even remind me to be careful taking things out of the oven.
They’re just awesome.
I buy pre-sliced bagels now.