I fussed and fumed for a while, and then hit on what my problem must be.
My attire and grooming were obviously way substandard.
This added to the growing sense of inadequacy that I got from looking at the models in the various men's magazines that I'd been reading, in vain hope of finding a painless way to get a washboard stomach and the kind of pectorals that women drool over, singly and en masse.
I actually was considerably relieved to come to this conclusion, since it was easy to fix. All I had to do was get myself on down to the mall and spend some money, and voila, no more problem.
Now, Gentle Reader, in less stressful times, like just after I got out college and had no more pressing need than securing the next sixpack of Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys, I really didn't sweat my appearance much. Typical working clothes were any reasonably clean combination of socks, tshirt (with graphic, after all I WAS a paid computer professional), and jeans, and if I hadn't done much in the way of wash lately, the definition of "reasonably" could vary dramatically. And for many years, due to a taste for technical work, I dressed like my fellow geeks, who the rest of the world views affectionately as a not terribly interesting collection of more-or-less socially inept lunatics who happen to have fixated neurotically on a semi-useful field of endeavour.
While I felt that I didn't exactly fit the mold of the "beard and sandals crowd" as one of my former employers termed us, in any dust-up between the technical boys and the suits, my sympathies invariably lay with my own.
And so, Best Beloved, I began to haunt the trendy men's shops in the various local malls here in the Tarheel State, and came out even more insecure than when I went in. I got my hair cut, but somehow I still wasn't satisfied.
As far as clothing colors go, I had a very simple rule that I'd used since before puberty. In the fourth grade, a young lady that I very much wanted to kiss once told me that a blue shirt that I had on was attractive, which pretty much settled things as far as I was concerned. She may or may not have admired the color, but from that point on, it was blue for me. I think after age 17 or so I considered actually wearing white as a relief, but blue was my main hue.
Apparently I wasn't very candid about this, and my relatives all caught on pretty quickly, and my birthday and Christmas clothing presents were all of the right shade. Several of my friends in college took to referring to me as "Blue Boy"; an obscure reference to a painting by Gainsborough. I'll admit it wasn't very creative, but in those days jeans didn't come in any other color, so it seemed the safest thing to do.
So, under the assumption that it never hurt to consult an expert, I began to try to figure out what kind of expert I needed for this kind of stuff. I finally grabbed the Yellow Pages and started a binary search, and hit upon the category of Image Consultant. There are three of them in the Raleigh metropolitan area, and I called all three to inquire about services and rates, etc. I figured that women mostly used these folks, but that anyone who was familiar with what women liked, would also stand a good chance of knowing what women liked in/on/around men, and that the same general rules about clothing color would apply.
The first two Image Consultants I called had disconnected phones, which suggested either that Image Consulting was rather a fly-by-night operation, or they weren't making enough to keep their bills paid, which, from my knowledge of the area's folk, wasn't much of a shock. Anyone for whom indoor plumbing is a relatively recent innovation is not likely to roll into town and spend their butter and egg money on getting their colors done.
The third Image Consultant, however, had an answering machine, and I left my name and number and a few questions. She called me back the next day, and told me that she didn't work with very many men, but I was welcome to come in for an office visit, and by the way, did I need any accounting work done? It seems that this woman had a combined accounting and Image Consulting firm, which conjured up some interesting pictures in my mind. Would one see such a firm to get a perm and taxes filed simultaneously? It seemed to open up whole new vistas of combined services. Perhaps get a cut, blowdry, and checkbook balance?
"This week only! Full set of acrylic nails and Federal tax forms, only $59.95!"
Be that as it may, I declined to have my taxes done, and wondered out loud just what it was that Image Consultants did. This one, from her voice, seemed to be a mature woman with a fairly ripe North Carolina accent, which meant that I could barely understand her.
So, we chatted back and forth on the topic of Image Consultancy for some time, and she finally decided that I was probably harmless, and we made an appointment for the following day.
Bright and early in the morning, I trotted over to her office, which is about fifteen minutes away (Raleigh is one of those locales in which all the places that you want to go are either fifteen minutes away, or a couple of hours, but nothing in-between). After the usual I-don't-know-where-I-am fumbling around, I located her building and strolled into her office.
Now, I had taken some care with my dress that morning, and I was decked out in an absolutely clean blue-striped long-sleeved oxford button-down shirt, matching pair of stonewashed jeans, and white socks. Quite the image of the modern technical boy, Berkeley-style, only missing the obligatory Birkenstocks.
My image consultant did not seem, at first, to know who I was, since she directed me to unload the boxes of cosmetics in the back room, and leave her the receipt. After I informed her that I was not, in fact, the delivery boy she was expecting, the truth of the matter burst upon her, and she said, gaily, "Well, we'll have to work on our clothing first, then, won't we? Ha, Ha."
Ha, ha, indeed. After some further conversation in which she asked my occupation and I tried to answer as succinctly as possible, and finally struck a balance between the generic "computer programmer" and "baby-sitter for a bunch of technically precocious overgrown adolescents", she invited me into her back room, where, among boxes of random cosmetics, I am treated to the view of an absolutely stock honest-to-god Big Blue PC/AT. I suppressed the urge to deliver my now-famous speech about how IBM equipment and software are Bad Art, and make some appreciative noises, and hope she doesn't offer to sell it to me.
"Oh, my. Look at that, a real PC/AT. What's that puppy crank, about 3/4 of a MIP? Goodness. Got an FPU in there? Looks to be in tip-top shape, too."
Most of which goes right over the head of my image consultant, who appears anxious to get right down to the consulting part of the visit, so I let myself be led back into the office, and she gives me my options. I can have my colors done and an "assessment" for fifty dollars, or, if I felt flush, I could get the colors, the assessment, and a bargain package of classy men's skin care products, for only one hundred dollars. We chatted for a bit about whether I needed to have her do some shopping for me, but this seemed rather like overkill (I hate shopping, but if it has to be done, better I do it than hire somebody else). I figure what the hey, and buy the whole package, on the theory that if I get tired of the bargain package of classy men's skin care products, I can always use them as Christmas stocking stuffers for some poor unsuspecting male relative. There is a virtue to anonymous gift-giving, my friend, and don't you forget it.
Anyway, I always wondered about the things that separated men's products from womens'. Does the mens' have something that increases/decreases testosterone levels? Cures male pattern baldness? Jock itch? Dare I take a vitamin formulated especially for women? What would it do to me?
I lie awake at night worrying about these things.
So I ask Louise (we're on a first name basis by now) if I can look at both the men's and women's cleansing lotion, on the hope that the difference might become clear after a quick perusal of the ingredients. I note that there is only one difference between them, other than they smell different, and that is that the men's products all had a compound of ethylene diamine tetraacetate in them. Now, EDTA is used for about one thing on God's Earth, and that is for binding up metal ions from where they shouldn't be, and making them inert. I was about to come to the conclusion that men have metal ion floating around on their faces, and women don't, and told Louise about my discovery.
I was halfway through drawing the molecule for her to look at, and explaining about the electron orbit configurations that made it work, when I noticed that she had withdrawn rather suddenly to the other side of her desk, and was trying to climb up on a nearby filing cabinet, and I deduced that she must be a science-phobe of some sort, and I had scared her. I dropped my picture making and electron orbit discussion and started a conversation about Carolina's chances in basketball next year, (about which I knew less than nothing), and she finally climbed back down.
Somewhat reassured, she suggested that she do my colors, but seemed to spook every time I got near that tube of facial cleanser, so I moved it to the sink, and we proceeded. Doing one's colors means that the color-doer (her) holds up some swatches of colored cloth to the face of the color-doee (me), and makes ummm-humming noises. Some thirty or forty hmmms and swatches later, I am informed that my skin has "cool" undertones, and that I am a "summer" person. I am given a portable booklet of swatches so that I can have my colors with me when I go on my twice yearly shopping trips, and before I can open it up, I am asked to guess which colors suit me best.
I answered truthfully that I had always dressed in blue and white, and I open up my booklet, and there, just as big as a house, are swatches of fabric in about ten shades of blue, and four shades of white, leaving me wondering what in the hell I just paid fifty dollars for. Oh, well, nothing like hearing it from an expert, I suppose. At least I have the booklet.
This booklet was also chock-a-block full of fashion dos-and-don'ts for men, about what kind of ties to buy and stuff like your socks should match your pants, don't scratch your crotch in public, etc.
Then came time for the assessment. I am asked to fill out a "psychological profile", which came to a sum total of 7 questions, including two questions done completely in pictures, and it and I and Louise came immediately to the conclusion that I was a very casual person. Louise then held up pictures of men dressed in various garb, and asked me what I thought. They all looked like Stanford MBA's to me, since they were all dressed in khaki pants, navy blazers, power ties, and oxfords. Louise didn't know what a Stanford MBA was, so I explained. Louise allowed as how she'd never met one, and somehow I didn't find this very difficult to believe.
At this point, Louise got the picture, and switched me over to some pictures of men dressed in western gear, which really wasn't what I was looking for either, and I finally came to the conclusion that she'd decided that I was a difficult case, image consulting-wise, and rather than stress her further than I already had, I suggested that maybe I should take my skin-care products and my color booklet, and do a little shopping, and if I felt in the need of guidance I'd certainly ring her right up. She agreed, with a noticable sigh of relief, so I grabbed my stuff and headed back to work.
She did leave me with one parting observation, which was that I was certainly the most, uhhhh, unusual client that she'd ever had, and that she wished I'd reconsider buying a pair of those burgundy loafers and some ties.
I nodded and said that I would give the matter my fullest attention.
Copyright 1994 James M. Putnam, All Rights Reserved