The other day, while watching the masses board the subway I was on, a young fellow wearing a pair of knickers caught my attention. When I say “young fellow,” I mean late teens or early twenties. When I say “knickers,” I mean just that. Short pants bound at the knees. Along with the knickers, he was wearing a suit jacket with a white shirt and dark tie, purple argyle socks, and Stacy Adams boots, or some variation thereof. As he looked like something from the wealthier side of a Oscar Wilde play, I thought for a moment that it might have been a costume of sorts. But as he stood there conversing with his companion, backpack slung over one shoulder, it didn’t seem that way. Maybe it was some kind if uniform? Or maybe he had walked out of a dress rehearsal without changing? Regardless of whatever story I made up in my head for him, the fact remained that he appeared quite content, quite confident in manner, quite sure of his look.
He owned it.