Mr. Bad Example

I like my red shirt.

I have reached a level of age and maturity wherein I no longer require the sartorial input of relatives senior to me. TA&R Guyhat is, I am old enough to dress myself.

I am comfort driven. I am charitably described as burly. In the summer, it gets warm and shirts with no arms afford ventilation.

Bright colours are fun.

Something of a graphic designer every second Thursday, I designed a logo for a band to which I once belonged that was a combination of iconic images: Boris Karloff as Frankenstein and John Lennon playing at the Larry Parnes audition pre-Beatlemania, Liverpool. I am proud of the logo. It’s on the red shirt.

I am somewhat ornery, established within myself and I often (okay, mostly) don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me because I am convinced that I am basically all right, good, decent and in all an upstanding citizen, friend, father, member of society.

There’s some resistance to my red shirt from outside sources.

I feel, really, like I am being entrapped, lamb to slaughter, kickingly and screamingly dragged from the world of my design, of my comfort, of where I find myself after a five decades long battle for acceptance and self-acceptance into… well, I don’t know. If I could comprehend what I’m in for, it wouldn’t be scary now, would it?

Here’s the deal: LB (my friend) has this friend, Kathryn, of Katalyst Image Consulting, a consultancy that offers “males an opportunity to discreetly and confidentially address and conquer elements –appearance, behaviour, communication– that may be hindering their social or professional balance and excellence.”

I didn’t FEEL hindered this time last week. Now I’m not so sure. Charm school? At my age?

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