In this superficial culture so focused on beauty and appearance, a person who feels comfortable just being himself is truly an anomaly. When you stumble across that rare individual who clearly has no self-consciousness about looks, who feels free to dress as he wants, leave his hair uncombed, and eschew fashion trends, don't you think to yourself, "Finally! A breath of fresh air! Someone who is brave enough to go his own way! Good for him!"
No? You don't think that? Me neither. I think, "Jesus Christ, look in a mirror, asshole, before I pick you up and carry you to one." Then I follow him around and silently, but obsessively, mock him like the small, petty person I am, whipping myself into a state of total indignance that this turd has the nerve to shatter the world's quiet beauty with his careless indifference.
For example, there' s the shabby chick who has come into my workplace every few days for the past two years wearing running shorts, a baggy t-shirt, men's athletic socks and leather sandals, with her ratty hair recklessly stuffed into a messy bun on the very tiptop of her head. Not the upper back of the head, where societal standards dictate that a bun should reside, but the tippity-tippity top, where old ladies sometimes put ribbon on their ratty little dogs' heads. And it's not one of those buns you need a mirror and a comb to create, either--I'm talking about one that starts as a pony tail, and then with one more drunken half-pass through the pony tail holder, becomes short enough to look bun-length. By the looks of things, she does this one-handed while driving a 4-wheeler across a half-acre of felled timber. And there's no makeup, jewelry or anything on her to signal that she understands she's female. Yet she's a wealthy woman, from what I can tell. She can afford to buy a mirror. And a pair of ladies' socks. She could use a metric ton of fashion advice, but if I were restricted to giving her just one tip, I'd tell her, "Buy a fucking hat, and never, ever take it off."
There's also the lady I see five days out of every week, who is always, and I mean always, wearing bright red socks. Not because she's homeless and only owns one pair, either. She dresses very nicely, if you dig the middle-aged, lesbian high school principal look, and seems to have a massive wardrobe since I rarely see her in the same thing twice...except for the clown socks. I find this objectionable not because it looks bad--it's not so terrible, just rather odd. What bothers me about it is how it's clear that she's decided it's her 'signature,' in the When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple vein. I'd like to have a moment to sit down with her, put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and say quietly, "Quit being such an attention whore, and just dress normally. Why should the rest of us have to pay for the fact that your daddy didn't love you enough?"
Then there's the tall, thin, reasonably attractive 30-something gentleman I saw the other day in the post office wearing your average, run-of-the-mill men's attire--jeans, shirt, socks...and big, pink, fuzzy ladies' house slippers with purple butterflies embroidered onto them. A real struggle ensued in my head when I saw this guy--I thought and thought and schemed and struggled to come up with a way to get a digital picture of this guy without getting beaten to death with a slipper, but ultimately I chickened out. If I were given the chance to give this guy one piece of fashion advice...I would decline the opportunity. I don't want to die by choking on pink fur that stinks like feet. And a guy who will go out in public looking like that is capable of absolutely anything.
The worst offender of all: The heinous-looking fellow at my gym who insists on a workout wardrobe that consists entirely of low-cut wrestling singlets and bandana do-rags. I've included a picture of a wrestling singlet for your edification, but let me be clear in saying that this jackass looks nothing, absolutely nothing like the model in this photo. And even the model in the photo looks like a total tool in this ridiculous getup--but trust me, the dude at my gym sets new records for total toolery. He looks like a puffy Robert Plant--now, not then--who I've also pictured here for your benefit. As for the picture of the singlet, I wasn't able to find one that's as low-cut as his--it goes all the way down to his horrid, horrid bellybutton which protrudes shamelessly from his distended, matronly belly. You don't want me to get started on how these ridiculous outfits tend to showcase a man's private parts, which, in his case, should really be kept private. Or at least be set against some kind of a magnifying mirror or something. My one tidbit of fashion advice to this guy would be, "Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave your house again."