“The clothes make the man.”
What kind of awful, self-serving expression is this? Clothes don’t make the man—the man makes the clothes. Put a serial rapist in Gucci and he’s still a serial rapist. Put Johnny Depp in an electric pink unitard and he’s still the coolest son of a bitch in the zip code.
The clothes make the man is elitist, bullshit propaganda espoused by the rich and uninteresting—classless hacks without the charisma or talent necessary to be evaluated favorably outside of their pricey wardrobe.
Case in point, that classic children’s parable, The Emperor’s New Clothes. I remember the first time I heard that story. Every other kid in the classroom was falling over him- or herself to say that—just like the hero of the tale—they, too, would have pointed out the obvious when the emperor walked by in his naturally air-conditioned state. But all I could think to myself was, “Yeah, so what if the emperor is butt ass naked? He’s still the bloody emperor! Show some freakin’ respect, you bourgeois twits! You wanna get locked in the stocks, mocked, and socked with rocks for the rest of the week?!” 
Of course, I didn’t say this out loud because I didn’t want to have to stay in for recess again, but rest assured that when we finally made it outside, I spent the rest of the period successfully convincing a few of my fairer classmates to let me show them my new clothes over behind the bushes.