When I was eight years old, my brothers and I were playing outside while my parents finished packing up for our summer in the Catskills. We were running and jumping, and at one point my brothers one by one climbed up onto the chest-high (to a child) post near the driveway and jumped off. I followed them – stood high for a moment, laughing with glee, and then jumped.
The back of my skirt caught on the post, and I fell face-down onto the concrete-and-gravel pavement.
My brothers shrieked and my older sister came out to see what was happening. She panicked, thinking I was dying – there was blood all over my face and all over the pavement and all over my clothes.
My mother came out and rushed me inside, where she washed off the blood and found the wound – a small wound at my hairline, right where my hair came to a point in the middle of my forehead.
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” my mother said to calm everyone down, then called the doctor to get me stitched up and moved our summer plans back a few days.
I lost the widow’s-peak hairline and have a scar there instead now.