In Defense of Scars

An entire industry emerged to research, develop, manufacture, produce and brand cosmetic products that reduce the visual appearance of scars. Why, I ask, would anyone want to do such a thing?

I've long loved the adages "Chics dig scars" and "Scars build character." For me, scars tell stories. Every time I run my finger over the strange marks on my skin, I lose myself in the memory of how it first appeared. Good, bad, funny, whatever--each of these "imperfections" emerged as I adventured and misadventured my way to where I am now. When I look at them, I am immediately brought to the moment: to the feel of the air on my skin, the smells that surrounded me at the time, the voices and conversations and sounds that followed each incident.

Some are old but precious, like the chicken pox scar on my nose (age four), the welt on my leg from surgery (age 10), the curved reminder of ankle reparation (age 16), the scratch on my forearm from a particularly hilarious game of beer pong (age 18), and the tiny dash from the first time Tequila and I swam together (age 20). These are the ones that refuse to leave, and I welcome their lingering presence.

The newer ones worry me. I watch them anxiously as their pink or white stories fade more and more into the golden olive of their surrounding skin. India is captured in these marks--my foot holds the story of running a motorcycle into a wall, my shin tells the tale of fall off the back of a scooter. There's also the drawn out line across my arm from some strange Indian rash, and a tiny dot on my palm from an over anxious Jack Bauer. Each brings me back to the heavy Indian heat or cool grit-stained breeze, to the smell of the forest or the village waste, to the anxious laughter of whomever was with me.

It makes me sad as I explore my appendages and realize Paris left no physical mark on me. My adventure there is over--for now--and what do I have to show for it?