“What happened? Where’d you get that?” And my personal favorite, “What’s on your forehead?” I’ve been plagued with these questions since I can remember. “Something fell on my head”, I respond, entirely unenthusiastic. The inquirer always looks eager, like I’m not telling them enough. It’s nothing personal; I just get bored repeating the same story over and over again. Sometimes I reply with “it was a shark attack” or, “I got branded by my parents” to see the reactions. But no, I didn’t get a scar from an animal attack or from cruel punishment. So, I will reveal how I actually got my scar, to finally set the story straight.

I was at Duck Beach in North Carolina, doing what a normal 18-month-old child would do. Sitting in a high chair, drooling, and wanting more attention. My infant sister, Meg, however, was in my family’s spotlight. Immediately, I began to cry. My tactic briefly worked, until my mom tricked me into eating Spaghettio’s, automatically calming me. Realizing her trick, I cried louder and pumped my legs to emphasize my disapproval. Now, I was in full on tantrum mode.

Things spiraled downhill from there. The force of my powerful thunder thighs along with a cheap high chair combined to loosen the chair’s grip from the counter. To make things worse, I remained fixated on the joy found within my circular pasta. I gripped the bowl, and pumped my legs as fast as I could. Disaster struck when I finally kicked hard enough to unclip the high chair from the table. I tumbled down, taking my Spaghettio’s with me. As I crashed to the ground, however, my beloved Spaghettio’s took its separate course, landing safely on my left temple.

I don’t know if you have ever heard a head crack open, but I cannot imagine it is a pleasant sound. I also cannot imagine my mother’s face upon seeing her 18-month-old baby, lying on the ground, bleeding from her head, covered in Spaghettio’s. I was rushed off to the hospital, riding in the ambulance with my mom, who was lucky enough to see my precious skull. When I got to the hospital, doctors stopped the bleeding and I received a whopping thirty-six stitches.

I grew up wearing my scar, sometimes proudly and other times wishing it would disappear. I’d see commercials for Mederma, a cream to fade scars, and considered buying some. Then I’d realize there was no way any lotion could hide thirty-six stitches, and I’d forget about it. Numerous times my dad has offered to arrange plastic surgery to make my scar less noticeable, but I always decline. First, because I am too scared of surgery, but also because I don’t see why I should get my scar removed. There’s nothing wrong with it, and a lot of times my hair covers it anyways.

So people can continue asking me questions about my scar, I just hope they don’t expect to hear the same answer every time.