I hear the familiar chirp of the door chime. A woman enters the shop and comes up to the counter. I greet her “Hi there, what can I help you with?”. With pointed finger she quipped “What happened to you? How’d you get that?” is what this lovely woman thought was the proper response to my inquiry. You see, I have a scar on my neck, courtesy of two thyroid surgeries. I tend to forget I have it but then I can always rely on someone emerging from the shallow end of the gene pool to remind me.
For an instant, I must admit I was angry and insulted, especially when asked “why don’t I cover it up”, but then remembered you can’t fix stupid. You see, I really do forget I have my scar. The surgeries were over 8 years ago. I was fortunate enough not to have cancer. My scars do not define who I am. I tend to forget that there are people out there that are miserable and petty and only feel good when making others feel bad and as I type these words I hear my father’s voice “not everyone is like you kiddo”.
I have had friends buy me a necklace just to tell me they bought it thinking it would cover my scar nicely. I have had people tell me about all the creams on the market that will help get rid of my scar. Once and for all, to be clear, I don’t mind it and I really do forget I have it, how I wish you would too.
My scar does not define me just as someone’s hair color, tattoo’s or piercing’s defines them. Seriously, ladies and gents, I know you all went to grade school and at some point someone, somewhere told you it wasn’t nice to point.