Even though my hair is growing out, I still have a rainbow-like arc across the left side of my head. It starts just in front of my ear, travels up and over the ear, and then back down. The scar marks where the surgeon cut my skin, peeled it back, and then opened a window in my skull to access the interior of the left lobe of my brain.

When I look in the mirror I don’t really see the scar. I remember it, though, when I feel it as I nestle my head into my pillow, or Matt tussles my hair, or I see, out of the corner of my eye, someone stare. Sometimes I see heads snap in my direction, as if someone suddenly thinks, “WHAT happened to your HAIR?”

Given that we leave in the foothills of Montrose, one of Houston’s more funky neighborhoods, I’m sure some people wonder if the arc is an effort to carve some kind of design in my dark hair. Once a security guard followed me around the Randalls, suspiciously, as I slowly wobbled up and down the aisles. Was he curious, or did he think I belonged to some kind of gang?

Sometimes I would lie in bed imagining t-shirts I could wear, saying things like “I Just Had Brain Surgery” or “It’s a Scar, Duh.” Sometimes I try to imagine what the scar might look like a year from now. Will it still be visible? I wonder.

I don’t mind it. In fact, I like the scar. It’s a medal of honor, a reminder of what I’ve done and what I have yet to do.