In contrast to the prevalent beauty ideal that cherishes spotless skin, perfect proportions, and encourages people to hide behind a masque of make-up, there is one phenomenon that challenges these aspects of what we consider beautiful: scars. Hands down, all of us have them and it’s nothing but natural to be imperfect. Scars tell us and others that we live, just as annual rings on tree trunks, and that’s just about right the way it is: we are not Siddharta Gautama hidden in a palace protected from age, disease and death.
The majority of the scars I’m wearing on my skin reaches back to the time of my childhood. As you progress from crawling to walking upright you’re prone to stumble and bruise as you learn that the world is not made of cotton wool. There are two incidences I still remember pretty clearly thanks to the scars they have left behind. On the one hand, there is this massive scar on my right knee that reminds me of the day I started school (and should have been a warning regarding the years of horror to follow) when I happened to step on top of a football instead of kicking it. My pretty white tights that had moons and stars on them that would glow in the dark were covered in so much blood that I easily could have starred in a B-horror movie. The y-shaped scar on my right ring finger, on the other, will always remind me of the fact that it’s a very stupid idea to get hold of snap-hooks in the attempt to turn into a human swing. Countless scars followed when I started to play volleyball at the age of 13. My “Step-onto-ball” scar enjoys pleasantly rich company ever since.
Besides these involuntary mutilations there is of course also my slightly masochistic addiction to the deliberate production of scar tissue. No, I’m not cutting myself, I just occasionally prefer to have needles stuck into my body like a human voodoo doll. Funnily enough, in the case of tattoos, scarring your body is not considered an imperfection, but piece of body art. If I were an alien in a fictional George Lucas universe, I’d probably come from Tat(t)ooine: at the moment there are seven of them more or less visible on my body, and in contrast to accidental scars, we can actually decide what story they are supposed to tell. Since tattoos have become fashionable in the recent decades, their looks have gained greater importance than their actual meanings (if there are any, for that matter). However, I can still claim that every single tattoo of mine does tell a personal story, reflects on memories of the time when I got them and/or symbolizes something for me.
Scars tell stories about the battles we fought, lost or won, and they are among the most interesting, frightening or fascinating features a person can have. Of course it’s up to us whether we want to share the stories behind the scar or whether we bend the truth with their assistance (as the famous example of Heath Ledger’s Joker illustrates). Whatever we decide to do, we should accept that we have them and not necessarily feel the need to cover them up or hide them (of course depending on how traumatizing the circumstances were in which we received them). After all, we should be aware that even a beautifying plastic surgery will leave its scar(r)y marks.
