I want to laugh, but I hold it in out of some kind of awed respect. The sharp studs on the punk's leather jacket are shiny and intimidating. Not to mention his gleaming piercings! It's as though he thought "anarchy" was spelt n-o-s-e-r-i-n-g.

Am I scared of this man's tough scowl and his dark clothes? No. Fearful of the loungey stride with which he walks and the dull red ponytail layered on top of decoratively shaved black hair? No. Chains and leather and stomping boots might seem like the armour of an inner-city warrior, and tattoos some kind of symbol of danger - but they do not frighten me.

He probably has his anxieties and problems like the rest of us. Clothes do not make the person - they may reflect an inner quality or seem to represent some grand agenda, but they are not the be all and end all. Dress this punk in khaki's and a silk shirt - he would be the same. He just wouldn't be expressing himself as visually as before.

But when I look at the fading tattoos on his hands and the fingernails longer than my own, I have to wonder if these things somehow do make a difference.

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