It was close to noon when a friend of mine was walking home from her restaurant to feed her dogs.
Nothing dramatic there.
Except that on the way, she ran into a couple who used to be her clients back when we were still colleagues. She had taken early retirement two years earlier and had since traded the corporate floor for entrepreneurship.
The wife looked at her and almost did not recognize her.
“You look so different. I almost did not recognize you.”
My friend was in jeans and a shirt. It was hot. She was sweating. Her bangs, by her own description, looked as though they had been pasted to her forehead.
This was not the version they remembered.
They remembered the banker.
Heels. Corporate clothes. Makeup. Air-conditioning.
Then came the comment:
“Why did you retire? You could have just stayed in the bank and enjoyed the air-conditioning instead of walking under the heat of the sun.”
Or, in the wonderfully economical language of Bisaya:
Pa-aircon-aircon lang unta ka sa banko.
She smiled.
Later, she wondered: Is this how people see retirees once they are no longer dressed as the people they used to be?
I laughed when she told me the story, but I understood what bothered her.
Because we attach people to their uniforms.
The banker has heels and a blazer.
The lawyer has a suit.
The doctor has a white coat.
The executive is polished, composed, and preferably nowhere near a forehead shiny with perspiration.
Take away the uniform and we begin to wonder if life has taken a turn.
Sometimes all that happened was that the person changed clothes.
I grew up with a grandfather who had very clear ideas about leaving the house properly dressed.
Lolo Nick didn’t like us going out in slippers, even if we were only headed to the sari-sari store around the corner.
There was also that old rule many women grew up hearing: never leave the house with unkempt hair and, heaven forbid, without lipstick.
In our house, Mama and I had an additional requirement: kilay.
Presentation mattered.
Perhaps it still does.
I certainly have no objection to looking polished. I spend most weekdays in heels and proper work clothes, the general armor of someone expected to look as though she knows exactly what she is doing.
By the weekend, however, I have served my sentence.
Give me a T-shirt, pants, and sneakers.
It doesn’t mean I have stopped caring how I look. I simply no longer feel the need to dress for the role when I am offstage.
Which brings me back to my friend.
The couple had last seen her inside a bank.
Of course she looked different.
The more interesting question is why “different” so easily begins to look like “less.”
Somewhere along the way, we developed a visual vocabulary for success.
Air-conditioning looks successful.
Heels look successful.
A title printed beneath your name looks successful.
Sweat, unfortunately, has terrible public relations.
A woman walking under the midday sun in jeans might look as though she has stepped down from something.
Never mind that she owns a business.
Never mind that she controls more of her time.
Never mind that she is walking home in the middle of the day because she can.
Never mind that she is going home to feed dogs who have no interest whatsoever in her previous corporate designation.
We often mistake the symbols of success for success itself.
A polished exterior tells us someone is doing well. A sweaty one apparently requires an intervention.
But happiness has never had a dress code.
Neither has freedom.
For those who leave corporate life and step into entrepreneurship, I have particular respect.
Independence looks impressive when it arrives in a linen suit carrying a leather portfolio.
It looks slightly different when it is standing over a stove, dealing with suppliers, answering customers, and walking home under the noon sun.
There is less air-conditioning.
There may also be more ownership.
That does not make entrepreneurship better than corporate life. Some people thrive in organizations. Some prefer structure. Some genuinely enjoy office life.
I happen to understand that world very well.
But comfort and contentment are not synonyms.
Neither are polish and prosperity.
Perhaps that is what we miss when we meet someone years later and think, What happened to you?
Maybe nothing bad happened.
Maybe the heels came off.
Maybe the makeup became optional.
Maybe the air-conditioning was exchanged for sunlight, sweat, risk, dogs waiting to be fed, and a life that no longer needs to look impressive from across the room.
Perhaps the woman with her bangs stuck to her forehead was not the diminished version of the banker they remembered.
Perhaps she was simply the happier version they had never met.
