Twice today I thought about the back of my head, even though nothing had drawn attention to it.
This morning, as I boarded the Tube, I saw a girl with a tattoo. Nothing particularly unusual about any of those three combinations. What struck me was the location and content of her markings. Virtually hidden behind her ponytail, scratched into her nape, this girl had some writing indelibly printed on her skin. The text was written in a diamond shape and amounted to some twenty or thirty words in an elegant script. Clearly words but too small for me to read from halfway up the carriage. Even close up, her swishing tresses would make surreptitious reading frustratingly difficult. It was hidden but unmissable. If I wanted to see, she would have to let me. But she couldn’t see it either. I wanted to know why she’d permanently decorate herself with something she’d never see. I wondered whether those words said something she could never say.
Coming home tonight, I briefly followed a girl carrying a bouquet. She wore a light summer frock. Across her neck and shoulders, red marks scarred her skin. These weren’t long lasting stains, they were simply angry spots or bites that matched the pattern of her dress. I wondered if she knew.
And behind me how much do I know? My lavish locks never really existed and my flowery dress days are few and far between but I know my scars are more visible the shorter my hair. I know how long it takes for the hair on my neck to grow unacceptably long. I always need to clean behind my ears. Still, I’m really guessing what’s there. I can’t ever really see. Not for myself. Not really. Not without something showing to me. And do mirrors, cameras or second-hand accounts ever really display reality or tell the truth? I do hope not.
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