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We are always reinventing ourselves. In the beginning, when we are very new, we reach for gravity, adopting silly pinstripes and tight shoes.

Later on, when youth is but a memory, we start dressing like hipsters. Some of us don’t even shave, we’re so youthful, even though the beard that comes in is chased with gray.

We molt with the seasons, trying to answer key questions: Who are we? What do we do? And why should we be paid a lot of money for it?

The problem is, if Fate had given us an innate sense of style, she wouldn’t have made us businesspeople. We may be able to invent rationales for ungodly mergers, but style? We need guidance.

We generally end up adopting whatever uniform is in fashion given the business we’re in, the locale, the weather. For us, it’s all received wisdom. Put us in a Snuggie, we don’t care. It’s business. It’s not personal.

Except, wait. It is personal! Intensely personal! We’re not just cogs in some machine! We are a human being! But what kind? It’s hard to say.

Stylistic options have accumulated over the years, and none seems to have primacy at this time. Each was established by a titan who defined a certain look that has survived and found a home in the way we live now.

Let’s start with Howard Hughes, not because he dressed differently from any other billionaire but because he was sharp, wore funny hats, and had an insane gleam in his eye. That soup