In a world where the superficial is often prized above substance, there’s something particularly unsettling about those who hide behind uniforms and badges like a cloak for their deception. It’s as though these pieces of fabric, adorned with pins and insignia, act as armor against the harsh reality of their own insecurities. I’m talking about the modern-day equivalent of Jennifer Aniston’s character from Office Space—not the beleaguered waitress stuck in a dead-end job, but the person who piles on unnecessary pieces of “flare” to make themselves feel more important, to feel like they belong to something.
For those of us who recall the cringe-worthy moments in that 1999 film, we remember the scene where Aniston’s character is shamed by her boss for not wearing enough buttons on her uniform. In a sense, she’s being punished for not playing the game of hollow appearances, of not buying into the idea that your value is somehow measured by the amount of unnecessary decoration on your person. There’s a chilling truth in that critique of a corporate culture that values surface over substance, one that permeates far beyond the realm of cubicles and corporate offices. It’s a mindset that’s taking root in places where it simply doesn’t belong—like in the everyday lives of ordinary citizens who think that adding a few badges or pieces of flair to their civilian clothes will somehow grant them the credibility or stature they’ve longed for.
But here’s the rub: badges and pins don’t make you important. They don’t validate you or your existence. What they do, however, is reveal something far more sinister beneath the surface—an insecurity so deep that it drives a person to hang on to external symbols of authority or recognition, as if they alone will mask the hollowness within. In the world of Office Space, the only thing that truly mattered was the realization that “flare” was just a cheap way to put a band-aid on a broken system. And in real life, it’s just the same. The guy in the coffee shop with more military pins on his jacket than a decorated general could ever dream of? He’s not some noble war hero; he’s just a guy trying to convince himself that he matters. The woman with the swath of first responder patches stitched across her jacket like she’s in some sort of unofficial uniform? Her clothes are telling a story of someone desperately trying to play the part, when in reality, it’s her actions—or lack thereof—that will ultimately define her.
The truth is, wearing “flare” doesn’t make the man. The man makes the man. It’s how you live, how you act, how you engage with the world that truly defines who you are. A person who has to rely on meaningless credentials to establish their authority or worth is simply someone who can’t cope with the reality of civilian life. They’re hiding behind their “pieces of flare” because they lack the confidence to exist as they are, stripped of the outward symbols they think are necessary to give them validity. What’s worse, this desire for superficial validation often comes with a sense of entitlement—a belief that their “status” should automatically earn them respect, regardless of whether they’ve earned it or not.
This isn’t just a harmless little quirk; it’s symptomatic of a much deeper societal issue. We live in a world that’s increasingly obsessed with symbols, labels, and surface-level credentials. Everyone is looking for a shortcut to significance, an easy way to prove that they matter. But the truth is, this facade doesn’t last. Sooner or later, people will see through it. Because at the end of the day, a badge, a pin, or a patch doesn’t speak to your character or your integrity. Your actions do. The way you treat people, the way you show up in the world, the way you carry yourself—these are the things that matter.
And yet, we live in a time where these superficial trappings of authority are increasingly common, where “flair” has become a stand-in for genuine accomplishment and where people are more concerned with looking official than with actually doing the work. But no matter how many patches you put on your jacket, no matter how many medals you pin on your lapel, the simple truth remains: the man, or woman, who wears the flare is far less significant than the one who earns respect through their actions and character. In the end, the badge doesn’t make the man; the man makes the badge.