What I learned from Uncle Harry, and possibly David Ogilvy.

The other daddy of imitable style.

Last week, Uncle Harry who had just turned fifty five turned in a lot of money for a new tattoo. (I blame it on age for the certain type of men who still eroticizes tribal art.)

Uncle Harry too bought a watch, a laptop, and an entire wardrobe of colourful suits that didn’t look as Italian as they should. As he beamed through his- also new- facelift over brunch, courtesy of beauticians and flash sale promos, he convulsed a cosmetic smile, leaned over, wheezed into my ears, and said, “when you hit my age, you would want to treat yourself better, invest a little.”

Coincidentally, I thought the tattoos looked sinister, the watch a rhinestone, and the suits an ill-fitted purple pin-up that made mauve look like a bruise. (As for the facelift, that’s an opinion reserved for critics who'd probably know better.) But ultimately, I was also missing the plot. Apace with a life renewed after fifty, he looked happier than any of us would with a few good purchases. And that if there were any paradox to age, it didn’t stop after he stopped being a teenager.

However, since this is not a discourse about my uncle’s sexuality (because that too depended on the position he was doing), I paused to suspect if there were really then a need for any material consciousness especially after those intriguing teenage years spent fussing over our styles (or a lack thereof)? In other words, do we really need anymore of this horse shit?

Advertising that sells.

Take if from advertising wizard, David Ogilvy, with his infamous red suspenders, “If you can’t sell yourself first, what hope do you have of advertising anything else?” No matter how justified some covetable items may appear to be, we buy into things because we also buy into an ideal beauty of our best selves. Fundamentally, we're firm believers in creating lasting impressions. Impressions then, like advertising, are a twinge that becomes immediately representative of who we are. And lest we be unkind to ourselves, we are also cocksure that looking good goes as far as communicating who we are in the most dignified, uninitiated way possible- through appearances alone.

Doubtful? Take a pretest the next time you trade truths in a game of “Spin the Bottle” and ask your friends what they remember you most fondly for. Chances are, reminiscent among those good times that have lasted through the days of your college-age activism, they’re not going to recount that time you helped the blind across the street. But rather, they’re going to recall the flip-flops and culottes you were wearing then that just got dangerously better looking with their third cocktails. Ironically, no matter how the fog thickens with vision (depending on the number of shots your friends take with their drinks), what you may have thus overlooked is how the subliminal impressions really are the most potent, least patronizing to reputation, and cruelly set in working memory.

That goes to say, for example, those of us who are too nervous about jewelry can, thus, never be too bold for gold. Slipping on a pair of gold cuff links during a reunion has the same lasting effect as, say, blowing the right instrument. If that’s not your shtick, try learning to play the piano. At 200 kilograms, the colossus has for centuries resonated with politicians, lovers, chamber guests, and every other general person who’s not allergic to a melody.  More importantly, as with creating lasting impressions, always remember to check for the time (preferably on your new dexterous Apple watch) amongst guests. And if they look unfazed, try telling the time with your shadows.

When Uncle Harry turnt the party with a purple suit at fifty five, turn it up a hundred degrees hotter, finally, by showing up in a shade of lurid pink. Should nobody gasps then, safely show up nude and warrant your own arrest- in style.