When I was a kid it was always pretty badass when you got a scar. You’d trip up on your shoe laces at the weekend and mangle your arm up a little, then come Monday you have some a scar to show off to your friends (of course with a much cooler story of how you got it – “Oh this little thing? I was battling dragons and one of his talons got me! Yeah, I didn’t expect to see a dragon in a Surrey park either!”). Then the key was to make sure you picked at the scabs as violently and often as possible, and boom, fierce scar on your arm forever.
Now it’s all ‘don’t pick your scabs’ this, and ‘use coco butter’ that, because heaven forbid our bodies aren’t perfect. We try and hide any indication that we’ve lived a life, which is a shame because scars tell a story – even if it is a little made up and about mythical creatures.
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