The preferred look for many young Mt. Pleasant women is something I’ll call hairdresser chic, a style topped off by a carefully cultivated coif worn like a crown.
One of the women sporting such a look at the station this morning, in fact, is a hairdresser–assuming, of course, she gets to keep her job after this morning’s debacle.
20-something brunette on cellphone, overheard on the platform as the 9:16 approached…
“Hi Holly, it’s Femmy.”
[Yes, Femmy. That's what we heard.]
“I missed my train. I’ll be in at 10.”
“I have a highlights at 9:30…Can someone cover for me?”
“Oh. Oh. Well, I missed my train.”
“OK. OK.”
Click.
We say, not good enough, Femmy. You committed yourself to highlighting someone’s hair today, and you should be there. It’s Friday morning. Perhaps the highlights recipient–maybe it’s A-Rod…he has highlights, doesn’t he?–has major plans for the weekend, and wants to hit the city rocking some serious ‘lights. You owe it to them to be on the earlier train, Femmy.
Not good.