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I am amused how much I have been hearing myself talk about fashion recently. Granted, New York Fashion Week ended a few days ago. Yes, I was helping to coordinate FashionCampNYC before that. But I’ve never really considered fashion, as a parade-ground for labels, to be worth much consideration. The word to associate with it and those who obsess over it, as a runway photographer so aptly pinpointed, would be vapid. While I may spend far too much of my time smoothing wrinkles in my clothes, adjusting hair, and looking at my reflection in windows of darkened shops, I would like to believe that my much maligned hair color has not thoroughly deprived me of my intellect. This is not to say that I am not interested in clothes. The garment laiden rack spanning the depth of my room would attest to the contrary. The question is not a matter of act but intent. I would not consider myself to be one of those women who obsess over fashion but lack the independent sensibilities to determine their own aesthetic, who then resort to the relative safety of a designer label. I do find many designer pieces quite fascinating, however I would like to consider my interest in clothing to not be one of vanity but of a far more intellectual bent. As a student of communications, I make it a point to examine the messages we exchange, both overtly and covertly. To me, what we choose to wear is as important as what we first say to a person. Thus, I have become very aware of—arguably obsessed with—what I choose to wear each day.

Mornings tend to require around two hours preparation before I enjoy the six flight exit from my walk-up. Part of this is because I savor my breakfast. Part of this is because I take my showers in the morning. But most of this is the time it takes to get dressed and fix my hair. Vanity, thy name is Elizabeth. Yet, before you pass harsh judgment on this, consider another occasion where you very well may pass equally gut level and underserved judgments on an individual. First impressions are a frightfully enduring and when we reach them, they rarely take into consideration the context of the interaction: the recent breakup, the late night at work, the even later night at the bar, crying to friends, the missed train, the random zombie attack, and the resulting week in quarantine. Instead, we inspect the week old ripped clothing, the caked blood, the bloodshot eyes, and presume her to be the very zombie from which this poor individual was running. Excessive, yes, but I maintain that before a word crosses our lips, our clothing and grooming speaks volumes of us.

This is not to say that such judgments are completely irrational. They are, in fact, a matter of economy. When we interact with so many people in a day, we do not have the time (even if we had the inclination) to truly get to know everyone. Instead, we look for markers. This person is well groomed, could they benefit me career-wise? This person is in a uniform, they could give me directions. This person is attractive, maybe they would make a desirable mate. It is a simple filtering mechanism to pinpoint those to focus on for more information. We make these judgments all the time, what we all too frequently fail to appreciate is that others are making the same snap judgments of us.

And so, each morning, I stand in front of the mirror and consider the day’s schedule . What roles will I play this day: the student, the employee, or any number of other positions I fancy at the time? I define my social group, my context, my personality in the language of lapels, collars, belts, hemlines, and draped fabric. There is my suit and silk dresses in my garment bag for interviews and conferences. My surprisingly large selection of dresses in different variations of red and pink make for notable casual wear. Even on oh-so-rare occasion, I pull out my jeans and a t-shirt to blend in with everyone else. Thus, along with my artillery of hats, shoes, and earrings I compose a message of intelligence, precision, geekery, unobtrusiveness, wholesomeness, innocence, authority, and self-obsession—weighty expressions to make in the morning

There is the very rare occasion when I may take this effort to excess. One such occasion might possibly have occurred a few months ago. This last summer was supposed to be defined by Apple’s World Wide Developers Conference. I looked to the event to be a major networking opportunity to court possible clients and employers. I wanted appear crisp, competent, and intelligent. After all, I was a young, relatively inexperienced developer and a woman to boot—traits that, sadly, do not immediately come to mind when thinking of skilled developers. Thus, I spent the weeks leading up to it, ordering business cards, gorging on Objective-C, and assembling my week’s wardrobe. I hunted suits, sought dress shirts, tracked shoes, and sniped dresses. The weekend before, I packed my suitcase with the full outfits arranged by day. I was ready to dazzle. I should have dazzled. Sadly, even the chicest dress and heels do not conceal the sallow face and red nose of one downed by a week-long flu. My cards languished in my box. My development questions went unanswered. All the same, hell would freeze over before I missed out on an appearance in those clothes, even if I could only survive a lecture or two. I maintain that, for those two hours spent in the line for the keynote address, I looked highly employable.

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