Social historians tell us we can learn a lot about
American society from the popularity or lack of
popularity of the suntan.
Before long, those same historians probably
will be drawing similarly deep conclusions about
American society as they examine the changing use
of the necktie.
In the Victorian era of the late 1880s, you may
notice in history books, rich women were notably
free of suntan pasty, even. Why? Because
many poor women worked outdoors on the farm
and became tanned. No good American wants to
be confused with a poor person, so rich women
did all they could to keep themselves tan-free.
Flash forward a half century or so. By now,
poor women largely worked indoors. Those who
could sport a suntan were the leisure classes
George Hamilton and the like who had plenty
of time to hang out at the pool. Again, no one
wants to look like a poor person, so the suntan
became popular as a status symbol.
Now, of course, the only folks who work on
their suntans are dopes who don't read the health
warnings. We're less worried about being perceived
as a numbskull than we are about being mistaken
for a poor person, so the number of suntans
remains remarkably high.
Which, in a roundabout way, brings us to
the necktie.
When I was a stripling lad in business, those
who wore neckties were big-shots managers,
executives, professionals of all types. Mere worker
bees didn't wear neckties unless some misguided
company policy required white-shirt-with-tie out on
the shop floor.
The necktie was a status symbol. More important,
it was a symbol of authority. I learned to use
the word "sir" around those who wore neckties.
Now, however, managers, executives and professionals
have given up their neckties in exchange
for new uniform those sort-of-greenish knit shirts
with slightly-darker-greenish collars. With the exception
of lawyers headed for court, no big shot wears
a necktie these days.
But neckties still are sold. Who wears them?
Look carefully. It's the low-ranking folks in most
organizations. Kids starting on their first jobs.
Assistant managers on the night shift. Even the occasional
busboy. (And, in all honesty, at the Northern
Nevada Business Weekly, the managing editor
who is so stuck in the mud, sartorially, that it's a
wonder he doesn't continue to rummage around in
his closet each morning for spats.)
From all this, we can draw a warning: The next
time you go into an office and bump into a fellow
wearing a torn T-shirt, his hair rumpled and his nails
coated with engine grease, watch your tongue.
He's probably the CEO.
