My first scar, according to family lore, came when I was around two and fell out of a high chair. The cut was high on my forehead. Through my childhood, it moved up into my hairline, disappearing from sight and from mind for a time. I remember being told, or perhaps making it up myself, that the scar was migrating and would eventually end up at the top of my head. Maybe my father told me that; he was fond of duping me with tall tales, like how he got his gall bladder scar sword fighting pirates in the Navy. I suppose, on reflection now, that my hairline was just lowering slightly as I grew out of toddlerhood and into childhood. It's since reversed the trend, and the scar is plainly visible. It's now like the high water mark after a flood: back in '74, it was all the way up to here.
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