Three stories, for three marks.



First, the small scab. I learned to sew when I was quite young, and over the years this has gone from novelty to skill to hobby to thing I do all the time without thinking much about it. I have two machines, about half of what I wear is made or altered by me, etc. Independently, three or four years ago I started paying attention to how much trouble I have paying attention in class: my mind may be fascinated, but I cannot sit still for an hour at a time; I start fidgeting and annoy the people near me. My player photograph is a result of my first attempt to combat this, but sketching quickly became too mind-consuming for my technical classes. At the same time I met some mathematicians who knit recreationally and would bring knitting into class with them; they swore by it as a way to keep the hands un-bored without distracting the mind. I took their advice, bringing either crocheting or sewing projects to class nearly every day for the last three years. Long story short, this Monday I mildly stabbed myself with a needle; it happens occasionally.



Second, the crescent-shaped scar.



My dad is surprisingly feminist and raised his two daughters accordingly; for some holiday circa age eight I was given a pocket knife. I had read Huck Finn somewhat before that, and was eager to try my hand at whittling. I was sitting out on the stone wall in the garden, using my first finger to press the blade into a fairly ambitious cut into the bit of wood I was whittling on, when the blade slipped and closed on my finger. I went inside wailing and dripping blood, and did not pick up whittling again. This is one of very few scars I have; I tended to be overly cautious as a child and I have more scar tissue from scratching mosquito bites than any other injuries put together.



Third, the long fingernail. When I was five, my parents took me to the orchestra and told me to choose my favorite instrument. I chose violin, probably on a whim, and it was settled: a teacher was found, a tiny violin was leased, and thus began nine years of lessons. The thing about violins is this: one hand bows, and the other hand fingers notes. There are no frets like on a guitar, and even on the full-sized violin I eventually grew into the strings are quite close together. The fingers of the left hand must be nimble, and the nails must be cut just about flush with the skin to use the very tips of the fingers to get the necessary precision. It looks very silly to wander around with one hand stubby-nailed and the other long, so for nine years both of my hands had the nails cut to quick every Friday before lesson. The other thing about violin is this: it takes a great deal of dedication and practice to play well, and at that age I did not have the patience. Practicing was a chore, and as soon as I could get away with it I quit lessons. As a further act of rebellion I stopped cutting my fingernails short; since then the shortest they have gotten except by breaking is about an eighth-inch.