As I walk along the sidewalk to the emergency entrance, the low rumble of rush hour traffic and honking horns is familiar and reassuring. The spots are nothing. Nothing. Then an ambulance whines and my heart picks up speed. What if they are something? What if? I weave around a weary-looking doctor in green scrubs, a man on a scooter. When I pass a trio of laughing women, the tallest one pushes a clump of red hair off her forehead. Involuntarily, I reach up to touch my own shoulder-length dark hair. It’s coarse, slightly unruly, and it needs to be trimmed every six or eight weeks just to keep it in check. Somewhere around my ninth birthday, I’d gone through a phase where I’d wanted to be blonde. And pretty. Every once in a while, I still get that twinge—like when Matt ditched me for bimbette Breanne—but then I remember that study Mom showed me last year: half of all women think their appearance is more important than their intelligence. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. Except, that doesn’t mean I want to lose my hair.
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