I seem to have some kind of subconscious focus on childhood this week, so I thought I would round it out with a question I have been been noodling on this week. Over a year ago, one of my nieceletts slipped on marble stairs and ended up with a gash in her forehead. Her parents lucked into an amazing plastic surgeon who did such a great job suturing her up that she has no scar. Fast forward to this past week when the same girl had an unfortunate incident where she ended up with a gash in her lip. The same plastic surgeon patched her up and once again we expect no scar.
We live in such a beauty-oriented culture that I am happy that my niecelette will not have to bear any stigma or respond to rude questions about scars. There is another part of me that wonders if we are losing anything by giving up childhood scars. My brother and I can both tell tales of childhood mishaps by the scars on our faces (and his head–that one I accidentally gave him). The memory of the pain of our injuries has long faded. All that remains are memories of the places and the people we were with when we injured ourselves.
I see the faded scar on my hand from a roller skating accident and I remember how much I enjoyed commuting to work by roller skate. I grew up in Manhattan and there was no way I was going to ride my bike on city streets and roller skating was so much faster than walking. I also think of the job I was commuting to and how I became friends with my employers so my relationship with them outlasted my employment.
No one emerges from childhood completely unscathed. Do we need physical scars to remind us of the mishaps of youth? Do they help remind us to be more careful as we get older? Or are they just another thing to obsess on in adolescence?