Standing in my bedroom in 1974, my mother schooled me once again with her steps for finding the perfect job. Having heard it all before, I wanted to scream. At 22 years old, I was now a college graduate and, in my snarky opinion, no longer needed her advice.
But as I pounded the streets of San Francisco’s Financial District in my long, homemade jean skirt covered in embroidered flowers and a peasant blouse that slid down my right shoulder, I began to wonder whether perhaps her words were true. High-end law firms and such had an image to protect – and looking like a bygone hippie didn’t fit the bill.