“Those were the first words Debra Judson said to me. “Tell me who I am.” As I motioned her toward one of the clients’ chairs, I studied her. Thin, stringy blond hair; no makeup on her round face; a trifle overweight for her five-and-a-half-foot frame, but not obese; ripped, tattered jeans and a rumpled pink blouse with two buttons missing. But that’s the style for twentysomethings here in San Francisco’s tech-savvy canyons South of Market. To the casual observer she might have seemed to be u...nclean and smell bad. But no, her face was recently scrubbed and a faint gardenia scent drifted around her. “I guess I arrived at the right time, getting right in to see the boss lady,” she said without making eye contact. She had a faint regional accent—Midwestern, maybe. I didn’t want to tell her that she’d gotten in to see me because business was so slow that the “boss lady” was terminally bored and had been dozing on her couch.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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