I hate when my scars itch, that niggling irritation of an injury that has healed but hasn't had the decency to leave your body, that is not content with being visible but must remind you, itching away just in case you forgot it was there.
Growing up, scars were my trophies, rewards for scraps with the neighbourhood boys, daring feats on my scooter, silly falls on my roller blades. When I got to my teens they were just parts of me, signs of growing up, a patterned patchwork of the incidents that make up a life.
Growing older, they became something I worried about, I worried people who did not see their stories would read my scars differently, would judge me differently. The parkour accident that mean my shin will never be smooth, the long line and the lump of my foot operation, the perfect circles where moles were removed.
We are all marked in ways that single us out as individuals, some of us have different bones, one leg longer than the other, a curved back, double jointed fingers or something that doesn't work properly. Some of us have freckles, others have birthmarks and some moles (I have some on my face that can be joined into a near perfect parallelogram).
We are none of us without defining physical features, yet, when we walk around, we don't always remember these things because we carry them with us always and sometimes it takes a questions, a comment, a remark from some other party to make us realise that something about us is different...other times, the only thing we need to remind us-is an itch.