Second Helpings

A Guided Tour of Scar...lett.

I was inspired by PlannerDan ’s comment about comparing scars and having nothing else to do apart from cough, blow my nose and say ouch I thought it an interesting challenge.

I’m sure we all have them and behind each one there's a story. Here’s a few of mine.

I have several small round scars on my forehead left from those childhood days of chicken pox and not listening to mother when she told me not to scratch or piddle off the scabs.

The bottom of my chin bears the scar of several stitches I received after my mother dropped me on the gravel yard of my grandparent’s house. I guess it serves me right for being too lazy to walk to their outdoor loo.

On the back of my head is another scar left from stitches I received after a fall about 15 years ago. I was out walking my last dog at the time; stepped on a stone in a stream and realised too late the stone was not secure. I distinctly remember wandering around local countryside covered in blood trying to retrieve a young pup who didn’t give a damn.

I’ll skim over the small scar on my left breast after an investigative probe which thankfully turned out to be nothing.

Also the very small incision scar around my navel after a laparoscomy or however you spell it.

Then there’s the rather long but neat bikini line scar from a Caesarean section followed twelve years later by an hysterectomy. A double whammy you might say.

My left arm carries the scar of a rather nasty small pox vaccination which I proved to be allergic to. My left hand bears the scar I’m rather fond of as it will remain with me for life – another memory of my beloved last dog. On one of our walks he decided to pounce on the local canine bully and when I tried to disentangle him from the enemy, he turned and snapped, catching my hand which then required several stitches. He was a lovely dog 99% of the time honestly.

My middle finger on my left hand has a small scar at the end resulting from when I was cutting some corks with a craft knife for an art lesson. Thirty halved corks and one almost severed fingertip the result of an afternoon of lesson preparation. Who says teaching is a painless occupation?

On my right hand there’s a scar on my little finger from a glass which broke in half when I was washing up. Domestic tasks don’t come without danger either.

My left leg bears the scar of a burn I received from an electric heater and my right knee the rather interesting scar from a road accident. Quite an attractive one if I say so myself; almost artistic.

Lastly, my right big toe still carries the scar from having a cactus needle removed from it when on holiday in Ibiza. Quite a long, hilarious and embarrassing story.

I’m not sure if that’s a low number of scars for someone my great age, an average amount or an excessive record of suffering, but no matter. I don’t mind my scars; in fact I’m rather fond of them in some ways. Maybe I should give them names?

So, care to share the skin you live in and the stories your scars tell?

P.S. Black and cream