It is not a big scar. In fact, it's only, perhaps, a centimetre long. And it's barely visible, unless the light hits it right.
This scar is on my left hand, on the tip of the finger that, if I held it up by itself, the action would be considered very rude.
When I was, I'm guessing, 15, a friend of mine and myself, neither of whom had much going on that summer day, found ourselves in my family's garage, searching for self-amusement. There was a roll of paper towels. There was a pair of electric garden shears. And, we decided, there were paper dolls to be created.
Truth be told, it was I who decided that paper dolls must be created. My friend was quite content to watch.
So, pulling the first paper towel off the roll, I powered up the electric shears. (Reading that last sentence again, just now, I can see the folly and danger inherent in it. When I was 15, nothing was dangerous and everthing was folly, so what the hell.)
Being a free-form designer and cutter, I began to cut willy-nilly, daintily holding the paper towel in my left hand, ravenously cutting with the electric shears in my right. The middle finger of my left hand was relaxed, hidden behind the paper fabric, unaware of the shock and ow that was about to befall it.
The whirring blades met the skin on the tip of that finger; the paper towel floated indelicately to the concrete floor; the electric shears dropped to the garage counter, still whirring; and for a moment, the world moved in slow motion.
Except for my left hand, which, in real-time, I began to shake like a polaroid picture. Blood flew here and there. Tiny droplets landing on me, landing on my recoiling friend, landing everywhere within a 10 foot radius of my hand and finger, which I continued to shake as if trying to flick off a snot.
Shortly thereafter, common sense grabbed hold, I could see the wound was actually not too serious, and the paper towel doll was used as a compress to ease the blood flow to a stop.
But, as I say, the resulting scar is now barely visible.