A few years ago when I was working in marketing, I spent the day on a project with the CFO, a six-foot-something ex-varsity shooting forward with an economics degree from a little ivy somewhere in the northeast. He had kids on the hockey team and talked college basketball and was as eccentric as sheetrock. With my black dress pants, button-up shirt and minor self-loathing I blended into the office decor and fit his image of what a marketing coordinator should be.
At the end of the day I changed into my cycling clothes for the ride home, revealing the two-dozen-or-so arm and leg tattoos normally covered by my white collar camouflage.
The CFO caught me at the elevator banks on his way out and in a flat monotone said, “Ben, you look different.”
I nodded at him in his off-the-rack suit and red tie and said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”