Fashionista

You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but there was a time when I was as fashion-conscious as the next guy. White leisure suit and platform shoes in high school, gray tweed sportcoat and khaki slacks in college. For the most part, I tried to dress as the Romans did.

Out of school and testing the waters of white collar life, I pressed my pleats and polished my shoes. I saw the barber once a month and my razor once a day. I even wore cologne.

Then mid-way through the 80s, I stepped off the fashion train and into theater where to this day the cut and condition of my “street clothes” matters not at all.

My entire wardrobe consists of two pairs of loose-fit jeans held up by suspenders, several long-sleeved shirts and one pair of plain brown leather shoes (not counting the aforementioned black character shoes).

Do clothes make the man? Is elegant plumage the birthright of my sex? If so, it’s little wonder that my testosterone count is so low.