Calm down. Don’t fear the beard.

Before the new king of American late night TV, Stephen Colbert took over The Late Show on CBS, there was a fellow who I think invented the winning format for an afterhours entertainment show. His name was David Letterman. Dave retired about 3 years ago and has only recently resurfaced with a new sans ads (blasphemy!) show on Netflix.

This is not a story about an old – albeit amazing – entertainer. But rather about a comedian I’ve admired for a long time, who now sports a large white sweater on his face. It’s not chic. Quite the opposite in fact for a guy who in all 33 years on TV adorned the consummate clean look that the western world had made the norm. As a guy who in recent years now wears a salt and pepper beard myself, I was intrigued by the giant bird’s nest.

I’m not going to go into David Letterman’s rise in the category; you either already know or you don’t care to know anymore. But “why the beard?” most entertainment hounds asked, “and it’s been so long already, why does he still wear it?” are the kind of things that I would like to tackle. This week, I will attempt to offer my POV on the ‘before’ & ‘after’ Letterman and how it can relate to creatives (or at least how it related to me).

But first, please excuse me for a slight digression: I’m also a giant Aaron Sorkin fan, the screenplay god of TV shows from the start of the millennium like The West Wing and then later The Newsroom. Or perhaps you know him better as the brainchild of movies like Moneyball and the classic, A Few Good Men. This story really begins in a scene on the 1st episode of his TV show called Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. The show was a mock take on Saturday Night Live; a live weekly comedy show with various short skits. The [creative director] just hired in the hallway minutes ago, barges into his writers’ room. He is dressed in a smart black suit. Facing him is a dim lit boardroom of adults in their 20s, 30s, and 40s wearing clothes and headgear that could very well be used as disguises for undercover drug agents infiltrating a secondary school. “What are you all wearing?” he interrupts his own opening speech with a furrowed brow. A brave voice speaks out, “It’s…comedy, man.” The reply is sharp; “Not yet, it’s not.”

As a young creative it was expected that I would dress much like what you just imagined earlier. "Hey juniors are poor!" I hear you say. Well, when was the last time the acne faced teller at your bank wore a Taylor Swift shirt? Anyway... dressing like that was good enough; in my first three years, I had amassed a global award medal tally that put me up at the sweet end of Campaign Brief Asia rankings. Thank you New Zealand creative juice! I soon found myself on Asia’s shores – hello Singapore!

But a hub market has a different kind of [outwardly] sophistication than my spirited start in windy Wellington and sunny Auckland. Our clients (and agency folks) were not used to the off-the-wall ideas that worked for the kiwi market. This was a serious town.

My craft suffered.

I was despondent. Had I made a mistake to come to a bigger and lucrative market outside the insulated confines of pure ether, New Zealand?

After one year, I decided to make some crazily superficial changes.

I stopped wearing shirts with no collars. Sounds stupid I know, I know. But it worked. I felt my wardrobe (and talent) now had a fair chance to speak to clients on an equal footing. In many ways, it also had a chance to speak to my higher ups differently. They say, dress for the job you want? I found myself in a creative director position in 7 years since the start of my career.

1.    Lesson here: if you think you have the talent, why not dress to impress too?

Ok, back to Mr. Letterman. Dave had a successful run of 33 years. I did most of what I wanted to achieve in Singapore in six; run teams independently, become a creative director, oversee a large regional account etc.

Then, in 2013 I left the fulltime game. It was time to try being an entrepreneur. >>> Here comes the beard. >>>

A beard (and earring studs, along with a myriad of visible tattoos) for me was anti-establishment. Now at 30ish, I wished to be liberated by my own collared shackles. I felt I had paid my dues as the ‘before’ Dave Letterman and wanted to play by my own rules as Dave now proudly does.

Risky. But the personal clients stayed. The big agencies still engaged. Agency clients didn’t mind. What the heck was I worried about?

2.    Lesson here: play the game but find a way to eventually enjoy it through personal expression.

I think any 1. young and or 2. static creative that observes these two points will thank themselves in the long run.

And actually that was it. We’re done. Peace.