“I want a new tour bus full of old guitars…”

 

 

It’s been a part of my life for more than a decade.

I’ve been in and out of more bands than I care to recount.

(Hang with me, I’m getting somewhere.)

 

 

Back when I had my first Federal badge, I’d finish the night shift.

Then get changed, put my sidearm in the locker and head out to the Philadelphia music scene.

[It used to be awesome; this has changed, sadly.]

I did this with such regularity my nickname became “Rockstar”.

Fast forward more years than I’d care to admit—

 

 

I’m working for shit money in bad neighborhood at a retail chain with a boring  uniform.

A close friend is going to pick me up the instant I get home, so I buy some cheap clothes at my workplace.

I get changed in the fitting room, drop my glasses in a bag, let my hair down and head out.

 

 

Now, keep in mind, I’ve been working there for half a year.

Never has anyone said anything about my appearance.

Yet, I’m no sooner out of the changing room than the girl working the counter says:

“Whoa, fancy!”

As I walk to the exit, more female heads turn.

Even a couple men comment.

One says:

“Damn! You look like like a rock star!”

 

 

What am I wearing?

Dark blue jeans.

A black t-shirt with a Batman symbol screenpressed onto it.

My biker boots.

My hair down.

My 5 o’clock shadow.

My keys on silver carbiner.

And I’m not wearing glasses.

That’s it.

 

 

The point of this post isn’t to say “clothes don’t matter”.

My point is:

Clothes don’t make the man.

The man makes the clothes.

Own who you are.

Ω