I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain some score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body:

I am sorry. I have a restless mind —it is always looking for something to gnaw on. If it had better taste, I would be talking to you about important things. Instead it decides to indulge in trivial issues, and there you go: I spend a week obsessed with the superficial, stupid, shallow utter non-issue of What Shall I Wear.

I mean, honestly, can’t I blog about the Crisis of Confidence the church in Uganda suddenly finds itself in? Can’t I blog about Warren’s Sunday Vision interview?

Can’t I blog about Bebe Cool’s new song, for crying out loud? Even that is more substantial than this nutty muttering about a “look”.

My friend Maybe said, and was right in saying, that it is silly to obsess over clothing. Once you are out of high school it ceases to matter. By the time we achieve adulthood we should have learnt that when it comes to judging the true worth of a man, clothes provide the weakest evidence.

One should be concerned with the substance, not the superficial; the essence, not the external; the inside, not the out. The soul, mind and heart; not the shirt, jeans and shoes.

Those are words to live by. I, personally, never believe the clothes. I don’t even accept first impressions.

But there are people out there who do, and I occasionally need to exploit their gullibility. Did I ever tell you the story of how I started to wear ties?

For the longest time I favoured what you could call “off-the-floure couture”. That is to say, I just picked a pair of jeans off the floor. If they were clean, I wore them with whatever shirt was nearest.

There were two reasons for this. One was principle. I hated fashion. I despised the idea of going through pain, effort and expense just so that the strangers in the street don’t disapprove of the sight of me. Dressing up for their approval? Shyaa… Approve deez nuts.

So I dressed with as little fashion as I could get away with.

The second reason was that I had little money and even less taste. I really never got the whole fashion thing. I mean, Kyana, you look incredible in those outfits, but I tend to think it is you who is hot, not the clothes. And as for men’s fashion, I haven’t considered anything cool since hi-tops. Everything since then has just been gay.

(By the way, I have noticed that for two posts in a row someone asked if I was gay. Good thing I am so secure in my manhood…)

Anyway, it was with this lazy-fair attitude that I entered the workforce and it is with this cavalier mindset that I proceeded to kick commercial ass. In addition to the great work I do at the Sunday Vision (I am particularly proud of this last Sunday’s.) I also do miscellaneous mercenary jobs. There is one I had done for some people. ’Bout a year and a half ago.

Note: A lazy-fair attitude is one that is so lassiez-faire that it can’t even be bothered to spell lassiez-faire correctly.

Every time I went to their office for my check, dressed in jeans, black sneakers and a polo shirt, they would feed me another nyanyanya-come-next-week.

I don’t remember what it was that made me wear formal pants and a tie that one day, but I walked in, asked for my check as usual, and had it by that evening.

It was as if the tie was a gun to their head.

That is when I learnt that this “apparel oft proclaims a man” thang needs to be studied. All along I hoped that my work and my attitude will determine how people treat me, but no. People prefer to react to ties.

So I have seven ties now. Each one of them lethal.

No we have come to the seven hundred word limit. Thicke, bring out the lolbes…

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