Tyra's Got Nothing on Me!

Truth be told, I'm a fashion hypocrite, a complicated combination of caring and not caring.

Consider the tragic "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972". . . .

I'd just arrived at school, wearing my tan pants that pretty much went with everything. I'd just walked into Mrs. Sorensen's classroom and bent down to tie my shoe.

An audible "rip" told me that more than just my shoe required my immediate attention.

The tear was impressive, running a good half foot in length, and revealing both my unshaved upper leg and my comfortable cotton briefs. Not exactly a 4th-grade boy's dream come true, but noteworthy nonetheless.

It never dawned on me to call my mom for backup (see "not caring") although I did think it was important to tuck in a yellow piece of construction paper that, while not a perfect match with the tan pants, might buy me some time as curious eyes tried to interpret what exactly they were seeing (see "caring").

I spent the day repositioning that construction paper (see "caring"), eventually settling on some well-placed staples to help keep down the seismic shifts of my temporary patch (see "[possibly] not caring").

And, things have not really improved since then.

My seventh-grade Class Officer photo in the yearbook shows that, while I embraced the natural, snappy look of a jean vest and Birkenstocks (see "caring"), my chlorine-stripped hair looked more like a Swedish ski jump than human locks (see "not caring").

I have spent most of my life, in fact, with that same haircut, a 'do that can be achieved with a single sweep of a Flow Bee (see "not caring"), and requires, at most, one passing of the hairbrush each day (again, see "not caring").

I am, however, more than willing to buy expensive shoes (see "caring"), especially now that my dogs have started barking. And, considering that I grew up in trendy clothes from Hovland-Swanson (my mom's insistence, though still a version of "caring,"), I am not averse to dropping a pretty dime on a good-looking shirt or pair of pants (yet again, people, more "caring!").

That said, as I type this, I'm wearing flip flops, comfortable cotton briefs (see "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972"), a man's button-up shirt and a pair of shorts held together with a really big safety pin (see, "not caring," perhaps ad infinitum).

While most of my friends assume that I swing only for the "not caring" team, though, I thought it was important to show that I am, in fact, a complicated fashion beast, one not entirely appeased by a season-end bargain and a handful of staples.