So, poorer and more oppressed people are doomed to follow the dictum "Clothes make the (person)". When actually, clothes do only make the person superficially, for very limited circumstances, and don't get them much more money, which is what they really need. Clothes can break a poor person, but they can't make one. Oppressed people are forced to develop a discipline of dressing up, to squeeze out the maximum social status from dress.
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True, true.
I was trained, from an early age, to pay close attention to my appearance. To be, as my family phrased it, *presentable*.
And not just at church (sharp coverings were a given there) but in every waking moment. *Fresh* haircut, trimmed nails, a clean shave (once shaving became an issue); all these things and more were drilled into me as vital parts of a self defense kit.
Because everyone in my neighborhood knew the police were somewhat more likely to give a black kid who seemed to come from a home that washed and waxed him a wee bit more consideration than one who appeared disheveled and unfinished into the world.
Ah, but then I arrived at university and lived with boys from the sub and exurbs who didn't have these preoccupations. Sloppier and sloppier they spun as our undergrad years progressed, till they seemed to reach, through their love of not being consistently clean, some point of negative perfection, a state of blissful disregard.
My experience taught me that girls dug guys who showered, shaved, cologned and refrained from sitting on their girlfriends' heads while passing gas. But these boys could go entire days doing none of the grooming tasks and all of the farting and yet, thanks to a heady mixture of alcohol and women's astounding tolerance of actions no one should probably tolerate on they rolled, getting laid...to my amazement.
To fit in, to not seem fixated on my appearance I went through an army jacket, cargo pants and perma-two days growth of beard winter followed by a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and obscurely labeled baseball cap summer.
Those were fun days; fun, muskily scented days but I knew in my heart of hearts that I was meant to sit, like a Bond villain, in a swivel chair with a white cat in my lap wearing a nice suit.
Or at least, I knew I needed to have a Bond villian's attention to detail -- unlike my happily filthy colleagues -- because I didn't enjoy the subtle gift society had given them: the benefit of the doubt.
.d.