The noblest man is ambitious in all ways save fashion.  Thinker or athlete, public figure or recluse, he wears the simplest, most humble clothes.  A grand night on the town, at the theater, or behind a lecturn, is a showcase for his gloriously-found t-shirt and shorts, shorts that were previously pants, the get-up finished with a hand-me-down sweatshirt to cut the chill.  That sweatshirt, discarded post-Metallica by a less consistent brother, or forgotten following a similarly transient Cancun vacation, belies our hero's braver ideals: efficiency and economy, humility and compassion.  

There are few realms more universally oppressive than fine attire.  A snappy, fitted suit radiates a cruel light, imperceptibly tiny beams, but all the more piercing.  Each couture gown, every pendent and jewel, burns its glowing image into the memories of friends, acquaintances, passersby, all of them dazzled, not quite realizing an associate nagging, like a grating sound not yet noticed.  "I am not good enough."  It is the same nagging felt by the dandy himself, his radiance in the wrong direction.

The enlightened dresser rarely shops, instead assembling his accoutrements from the substantial stock of existing, unused items in his home and community, a modest set of all-purpose wear.  He chooses among the overwhelming surplus around him, the waterfall of fabric from store to trash, saving from the pile the articles that best satisfy comfort and function, modifying with patch pockets for his tools, stripping collars and ornamentation to reveal something profoundly beautiful: These clothes are what happens when this man is in this place.

He worries about his looks only insofar as they reveal his health.  He desires to be fit, he brushes his teeth, but does not trouble with hair, or notice others'.  The noblest man praises smiles, people's posture, and anything essential.  He says, "You are nice" before "You look nice."

In all likelihood, our hero dons a t-shirt.  Ah the tireless t-shirt!  Truly the universal garment, the most democratic.  Were our nobleman to travel the world, he would find in Japan, Ethiopia, Australia, compatriots similarly clad, and he would make none of them feel small.

Join him!  Reject the dress-up!  Look past the cut, the color, the logo.  You, in that thinning, recycled long-sleeve, stained despite washing, the unfortunately-orange sweatpants from high school, the passed-over pullover, you, are good enough.