Brilliant, but Sidelined

In my conversations with peers of similar age—those between 28 and 35—I have noticed an interesting shift in attitudes toward appearance and professionalism. Just a few years back, in the more carefree days of youth, many of us dismissed the importance of attire as a mere distraction from the real work of the mind. This was a time when our uniforms, if one could call them that, consisted of ill-fitting t-shirts and the kind of casual sloppiness that accompanies youthful indifference. A certain pride was taken in the nonchalance with which we approached our outward appearance, as though it were an act of defiance against the narrowness of social expectations.

These were the years in which formal attire—constricting ties, crisp shirts, shoes that were polished until they gleamed—seemed not only uncomfortable but an affront to the freedom we felt in our work. Many of my peers, having worked in startups or under the leadership of younger, perhaps more visionary entrepreneurs, were accustomed to a more relaxed ethos. They saw the office as not a place for rigidity, but for creativity, and one where no one should be shackled by the invisible chains of appearance. The belief held firm that the true measure of a man’s worth lay not in the precision of his wardrobe but in the substance of his contributions.

A few years passed and this youthful smugness gave way to a more sobering understanding. The once-dismissed importance of personal presentation slowly seeped into our consciousness. The loose t-shirts and the carefree haircuts began to be replaced by shirts tailored to fit, shoes of quality that do not merely serve a utilitarian function, and watches, cufflinks, and ties that suggest not only an eye for detail but an awareness of the world in which we must now operate. The change is not merely a matter of style but of a dawning realization: presentation is no longer a frivolous indulgence but a necessary element in how one is perceived.

In one particularly striking conversation, a friend reflected on his younger years with an honesty that bordered on regret. He admitted that, in his haste to prove that his work should stand on its own merit, he deliberately neglected his appearance. Clothes, to him, were something to be worn in the most basic sense—a means to cover the body, nothing more. His negligence was not accidental but a conscious, almost stubborn, decision, issuing from the belief that the quality of ideas and his competence absolve him from thinking about superficial matters like appearance. Now, however, he admitted with a touch of chagrin that he had come to understand that there is something to be said for presenting oneself in a way that commands respect. It was not about vanity or a superficial desire for attention. A person with a clean, well-ironed shirt signals more than just his fashion choice. He shows a willingness to take oneself seriously, and by extension, one’s work and one’s reputation.

As I listened to these reflections, I could not help but think that the world, it seems, had not softened its judgment of appearances with age, as many had hoped. Instead, it had demanded a new level of sophistication in how one presents oneself, especially when dealing with older colleagues, those in their 40s and 50s, for whom the expectations of appearance are perhaps even more rigidly defined. It was not enough, in these circles, to simply be capable—one had to be visibly capable, with details of one's appearance aligning with the seriousness of one's profession. The messy beards, the haphazard haircuts, the scruffy shirts — all too often adorned out of a stubbornness to “stick it to the man” — were self-sabotaging more than anything else.

My peers and I once harboured the illusion that rejecting formalities and conventional standards was a kind of intellectual freedom, a somewhat noble resistance, admittedly, to the mechanized soul-crushing demands of society. But this rebellion, which seemed at the time a triumph of individualism, was nothing more than the naive arrogance of the inexperienced. Youth, in its vigour and self-assurance, fails to comprehend that the world does not exist to gratify one’s high ideals, and that the truth of the matter is that outward appearance plays a significant role not only in determining one’s place in the social hierarchy (no matter how distasteful that truth may seem), but also in reflecting the stance we adopt towards life itself. Whether we approach the world with casual indifference, apathetic nihilism, or deliberate intent and attentiveness, our outward bearing—our posture, speech, habits, and even attire—acts as a mirror of our inner disposition. The signals we send to the world are no less signals to ourselves, reinforcing the stance we choose to take in confronting the world.

With time, we came to understand a truth that had long eluded us: that the adulation of rule-breakers is the peculiar folly of adolescence. The true wielders of power, however, are not those who flout the rules but those who make them, enforce them and bend them to their will; those who impose order upon chaos. Rule-breaking, while momentarily exhilarating, is an act of impotence compared to the quiet, enduring authority of rule-making—a dominion that shapes the very framework within which others operate. The unkempt idealist, convinced of his moral superiority, rails against a world that demands polish and order, only to find himself increasingly isolated from the corridors of influence, where power is exercised not through rebellion but through negotiation. He is brilliant, yes, but sidelined.

There is a certain irony in this shift—an irony that is not lost on me. For, in the end, the very professionalism we once scorned is the very thing that will open doors for us in the future. It is a process that suggests that we must, in some sense, become more than we are—more polished, more composed, more "acceptable" in the eyes of a society that values surface over substance. But it also suggests something more. It suggests that with age, with experience, we learn not to reject these things outright, but to embrace them as tools for survival in a world that rarely rewards the nonconformist, however brilliant their ideas may be. And even if we were to mount some grand resistance to something that mattered, this is hardly the hill we wish to die on. In this, there is a lesson for us all.

“But I have come to the rather obvious conclusion that our mode of dress is a message to others, and taking some care over it to appear with reasonable smartness is an act of social responsibility and respect for others rather than egotism. Not to take such care is egotism, insofar as the message conveyed by the lack of care is “I am not going to make an effort just for you, mate. You have to accept me as I am.”
In fact, we cannot but convey a message by the way we dress (it is amazing how something so obvious should have escaped me for so many years). And if you walk down the street of any Western city, what you see is a society of individualists, though not of people of strong individuality.”
- Theodore Dalrymple, In a Fashion.

Image Source: Freaks and Geeks (1999-2000)