Walking into the hair salon, I was met by a lively discussion of women who are comfortable with their body type. My stylist was quick to exonerate me and admit me to the conversation with the disclaimer that I'm not fat, I'm pregnant. Bless her.

The gist was that one could tell who was comfortable by the clothes they wore, the more risqué, the better.

"For instance," one lady began, "you know the Pan-Am motel there in Eatontown? I once saw this humongous woman come out of there and wait for a bus. She wore this short-short skirt that wouldn't stay down and a midriff! She was hanging out all over the place!"

I do know the Pan-Am motel. I had a student whose family lived there. The mother walked the girl and her younger brother to class on Monday nights but was often unable to pick them up. On those occasions, I drove them home. They probably could have walked without any worries, but it was quite literally the least I could do.

So, I said, intended as a gentle rebuke, "The clothes were probably donated and the woman was happy to have them. So think about that the next time you donate clothing. Think about who might be wearing them."

And my stylist announced to the others, "Did you hear what Teresa said? The clothes were probably donated, ah-ha, ha, ha!"

Too gentle, I suppose.