Past Threads, Present Comforts

In high school, my buddies—Rick, Tom, and I—landed part-time jobs at a men’s shoe store called Marston’s Footwear. The manager had one rule carved into stone: full suits and ties, even on weekends. We were the youngest salesmen there, but we looked like miniature bankers. Somewhere between fitting shoes and shining leather soles, I fell hopelessly for the cashier—a girl with a laugh that could sell anything. Lesson learned: never date someone who works the cash register two feet from your boss’s office. When it ended, I realized heartbreak feels worse in a three-piece suit.

After graduation, I joined my father’s glass manufacturing business. His philosophy was simple: “If you want to lead men, learn to sweat with them.” So I spent my days stacking panes, wiping grime, and learning the true meaning of hard labor. Eventually, I rebelled—showed up one Monday in a sports coat and tie. He sighed, half proud, half annoyed, and moved me into the office. My pay went down, but my collar stayed clean.

One day, my girlfriend—daughter of a local doctor—came to pick me up for lunch. When she saw the factory floor, she refused to step past the office door. My dad chuckled and said, “Grease is cleaner than hospital blood.” I didn’t know it then, but he was right about a lot of things. We broke up a week later, and I went back to my sandwiches alone.

Then came my Navy years, when starch was a weapon. I wore dress whites so stiff they could probably stand upright on their own. Sitting down was an Olympic event. But I carried those creases like badges of honor. That uniform had power—it turned heads, opened doors, and occasionally, opened hearts. Back then, a clean shave and polished shoes could make a man feel unstoppable. I doubt the same uniform would draw much attention today.

Years later, I found myself working in fashion marketing, of all things. The polyester age had arrived—shiny suits, tight vests, and too much cologne. I drove across the country promoting new franchise programs we’d written and registered. Pulling into small towns with my baby-blue Mercedes and wraparound shades, I must’ve looked like a visitor from another planet. Folks would stare through restaurant windows, wondering which Hollywood producer had just landed. Truth is, I was just a guy trying to sell ideas—and maybe himself a little, too.

Then came the Armani revolution—the “power suit” era. The double-breasted look. Wide suspenders. Gold money clips flashing from breast pockets. It was the rise of the “Yuppie,” the young urban professional who believed confidence came from shoulder pads and shine. We had tie pins, monogrammed cuffs, and even pinky rings—because nothing said success like wearing jewelry on the finger you never used. It was a strange time, but we believed we were dressed for destiny.

Fast forward to today. My brother runs a design firm in the city’s best district. His employees roll into work wearing hoodies, tank tops, and sneakers. Some bring their dogs. One guy has a parrot that sits on his shoulder during meetings. “Relaxed culture,” they call it. Maybe so—but sometimes it feels like professionalism got lost somewhere between comfort and chaos.

Recently, a young man came to apply for a job at our office. His résumé was flawless—degrees, awards, experience galore. But his shirt was wrinkled, his jeans torn, tattoos creeping up his neck. He didn’t seem to notice. We didn’t hire him. Not because of who he was, but because first impressions matter—at least to me. He later filed a complaint for discrimination. Maybe I was wrong, maybe just old-fashioned. Either way, it made me think.

Time’s changed the way we work, dress, and even write. We old storytellers used to fight with typewriters, white-out tape hanging around our necks, paper balls littering the floor. Now, writers press a button, and an AI finishes their thoughts. But I still believe something machines can’t replicate: the warmth, humor, and stubborn humanity behind every imperfect sentence.

The thread may change, but the tailor is still human.