The past two days have left me flabbergasted at the state of two men. A big Style Therapy no no is public grooming. This includes applying makeup (a quick lipgloss swipe is fine), nose-picking, hair twirling, toe-nail clipping (which is not uncommon on the train); etc. The other day I saw a man dressed in a suit with an attaché case board the C train during rush hour. The car was relatively packed, but we weren't at sardine capacity yet. I could not believe my eyes when I saw this man put his briefcase down, turn towards the doors of the train, look at his reflection, whip out a tie, and proceeded to do a double windsor!
He was jutting his chin out, between his collar, the way men do when they tie their cravats. Each time the train conductor hit the breaks or exited a station, he would almost fall on top of seated customers. He seemed pretty pleased with himself once his task was completed. But Tie Man was mild compared to what I saw at the Metropolitan L station yesterday.
The second man was young, with unkempt curly hair and he wore a beige corduroy blazer. I'm not sure if he was affecting a stereotypical professor look, or if he really was one. It didn't matter, because what I saw on his feet nearly knocked me out. As he was racing up the stairs to catch the train, I caught a glimpse of his feet. This man was wearing house slippers. House slippers on the street conjures up images of dope fiends. If corduroy blazers are a part of the professor cliche, fuzzy house slippers are addict's sartorial equivalent.
They were the type that people buy for their dads or grandfathers for Christmas. They are not meant to be worn on the street, even though they're fashioned after moccasins. The most one can do in them is run outside and get the paper while spending the weekend at a cabin in the Adirondacks. After all, we don't roam the streets in our drawers.
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