Editor's Letter

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.