The Art of Getting Stared At by Laura Langston Read Free Book Online

gently beforerinsing and applying conditioner. But when I wash out the conditioner, I’m left with a lot of hair in my hand.
    A tangle of the stuff. I stare at it. More of a clump than yesterday.
    I lean against the cold tiles and try to make sense of things. But I can’t. I can hardly breathe, never mind think. After a minute, I slip into autopilot: stand up, rinse, dry off.
    I dress quickly, wrap my hair in a towel, and hurry to the bedroom. Kicking my door shut, I race to the vanity, sit down, and stare at myself in the mirror. Fear twists my stomach. I want to take the towel off but I’m scared to. Something tells me this won’t be good.
    Holding my breath, I pull the towel from my head. I lean into the mirror. My hair looks like it did yesterday. Exactly. I start to breathe again. “The average person loses about a hundred hairs a day,” I say out loud.
    It’s something like that, I know it is. But then I wonder, How many were in that clump? It’s in the bathroom trash. I could go back and dig it out. I could count.
    Don’t be stupid. Don’t pull a Lexi.
    Gently, I finger comb my hair into place, taking special care on the right to arrange more strands than usual over the bald spot. Then I start on the left side.
    And freeze.
    The spot feels bigger. A lot bigger.
    I twist sideways to see my reflection. “Oh my God.” The knot of unease behind my breastbone morphs into flat-out panic. The spot is twice as big as it was yesterday. As noticeable as the spot on the right. Maybe even more.
    I fly down the hall and burst into Mom’s room. She’stucked and rolled into her blankets like a human sausage. “Mom!” I shake her shoulder. “Wake up!”
    She bolts to a sitting position; the covers go flying. “What?” Her eyes are wide with terror. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œThe other spot. It’s way bigger. Probably bigger than the first one. And a pile of hair came out when I showered. I’m guessing a hundred hairs at least and I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to lose in an entire day, only I lost that much in one shower. It’s in the trash if you want to see it and—”
    â€œSlow down, babe, slow down.” Mom wiggles onto her elbows. She’s wearing a psychedelic orange and green Grateful Dead T-shirt. The left side of her face has a creasedroad-map-going-nowhere look. “Now give this to me again.”
    I sink onto the edge of her bed and repeat myself, ending with, “You have to call somebody else. Today.” Mom called three specialists yesterday. Two were booked solid for three months; the third hasn’t called back.
    She glances at the clock on her nightstand. “It’s not even eight o’clock, Sloane. And it’s Saturday. I doubt if I’ll be able to find a specialist on the weekend.”
    Sweat blooms on my palms. I wipe them on my pants. “You have to find somebody. You leave in a week!”
    â€œI will, darling, I will. Right after we see Ella.”
    I freeze. Ella’s birthday breakfast. “I can’t go out like this .” My vision blurs; I’m about to lose it. “I can’t let anybody see me.” I can’t let Kim see me. She thinks the entire world and all the people in it should be as perfect as a magazine spread.
    â€œYou have to go.” Mom tosses back the covers and reaches for her robe. “Nobody will see. Not if you wear a hat.”

    I own three hats. A raspberry-coloured toque my grandmother knit for me when I was five, a frayed straw hat with holes in it, and an oversized sage green vintage cap Dad found for me in New York last year. Oversized is good, I tell myself two hours later as I sit at the Harvest Moon Café sucking down a mango-lime smoothie. It means everything is covered.
    All I have to do now is get through this birthday breakfast and then I can go home and surf the web.
    Outside, a red