I was around 17, and my friend Hayley and I were eating lunch on the school field. I was complaining about a scab above my eye, caused by constantly picking at a spot.
‘Just pick it off’, she said flippantly.
As ordered, I dug my nail behind the scab and the whole thing came cleanly off. Hayley fell silent, examining the recess left behind. I could tell from the expression on her face that I’d just altered mine irreparably. My first reaction wasn’t one of panic or dismay; I was happy. University was looming, and I was aware that this whole situation—not just the school, but also my friends – would soon disappear from my life. I knew immediately that I’d just been given a tangible memory; a free and subtle tattoo that’d link me forever back to that otherwise uneventful lunch on the school field.