I don’t know how long I’ve had a uniform—beyond the green of my Army days—but I’d guess I’ve had about four different versions, post-choice. Before that, of course, I had no choice. I wore what my mother made or bought. Until I was sixteen, my first uniform was an eclectic blend of Montgomery Wards with a JC Penney subtext, capped by handmade flair: large polka-dot polo shirts for me and my brother.
I do remember one slight deviation. I bought white Levi’s, in keeping with the Majorettes’ song from 1963. I wore a white shirt, a white cardigan sweater, and black Italian shoes we called Knobbies—long, pointed shoes that jammed your toes into narrow confinement. I was voted Best Dressed 9th Grader.
It was downhill from there.
Unwilling to follow the trend of buying Pendleton wool shirts from Smith’s—the local men’s fashion house—I made a few interesting choices. Turtlenecks and corduroys from Simons. Sandals from Thom McCann. A sheep-lined jacket from Macy’s. (Okay, fake sheep.) And yes, I wore socks with the sandals. I’d give it a 6 out of 10 on the alternative scale.
I had to wear something, and the collected sum of what I bought became “the uniform.” It wasn’t necessarily in sync with the fashion cycle—but it made a statement. I saw bad movies where counter-culture types dressed a certain way. Beatniks, non-conformists, early hippies—they all had visual codes. It didn’t occur to me that the so-called independent thinkers all dressed the same.
Anyway, I made the purchase decisions, and then didn’t think much about it until I needed to shop again. Then I just repeated what I did last time. Shopping took about five minutes. Done.
That version of the uniform stuck with me for the next five or six years. Eventually, I rotated in black t-shirts alongside turtlenecks, hiking boots instead of sandals, 501 Levi’s instead of cords, and a traditional farmer’s bandana around the neck. It became the uniform of the backpacker, the road hitchhiker.
The sandals were the last to go. I can’t believe how many miles I hiked in those.
On one of my final road trips, I finally had enough of bruised feet. I tried to find good boots at a used clothing store in Idaho. Not much luck—but they did have a nice pair of leather roller skates. I bought them, unbolted the wheels, and voilà: boots. Unfortunately, the leather soles weren’t made to touch ground. Within two weeks, the hobnails in the heel had been driven into my foot. I noticed only when I saw blood dripping from one of the bolt holes. I tossed them and finished the trip in sandals.
When I got home, I determined to start with a good foundation: great mountain boots. I bought the most solid Italian climbing boots available—Pivetta Eigers. Easily the ugliest, heaviest leather boots ever made. I bought three pairs over the years. They were expensive—almost a week’s wages—but they were the start of a better uniform.
Then came the Army, and a real uniform.
Eventually I was stationed in the most secret underground base in the world. The uniform had standards. Triple-starched. I could stand my pants up in the corner at night, no hanger needed. The shirt—oddly called a blouse—had to be peeled apart in the morning. No wrinkles allowed, but elbow movement was optional. I lived like this for nearly three years.
Then Korea. There, I was lucky if my uniform was even washed, let alone starched.
When I got out, I returned to the backpacker uniform. But things had changed. The bandana I wore around my neck—once practical and stylish—had become a signal for alternative lifestyles. I didn’t have much of a sex life, but it wasn’t alternative. Still, I missed the bandana. It kept me cool in summer, warm in winter, and it had utility.
Having children changed my uniform again. I’m tall, but not so tall I stand out in a crowd—unless I wear distinctive headgear. That’s when I started wearing a beret. Easy to spot. The kids could find me anywhere. It was cheap, windproof, and protected my scalp from the sun. I wore it everywhere—black, grey, even maroon one year to match the interior of our van.
Some people never saw me without it. Others—like folks from church—never saw me wear it at all.
Traveling to Paris with the family was the only time the beret worked against me. I didn’t speak French. I was obviously American. And there I was—four kids in tow—wearing a beret. In Paris. They don’t wear berets there. That’s for Bretons or Basques. Parisians hate them. So, no love on the Paris trip.
Still, I wore my beret.
There is an upside. People often say they like the hat. Some ask if I’m an artist. I usually stammer, “Well… I have the hat…”
Maybe I’m just hoping to be seen. Not in a tie-dyed shirt with a jester hat kind of way. But still. Like writing a blog, hoping to be read. Psychologists might call it individuation. A way to say: I am me. I matter. I’m different.
Or maybe it’s just about consistency.
For most of my adult life, I’ve worn a consistent uniform. It makes a quiet statement, and then it disappears—because it doesn’t change. And when the uniform disappears, all that’s left is personality and character.
At least, that’s what I’d like to think.
Then again, maybe I just like berets.
And shopping in five minutes flat.
