Or so we've been told.
For most of us, our personal image is not all that crucial to our professional success, but for people like real estate agents — people who put their faces on signs in effort to attract business — you'd think they'd try a little harder than the rest of us schlubs. But no, they don't seem to.
As I casually trolled the local real estate market yesterday, I was astonished by the lack of professional-looking agents there were. So much for image being everything in this judgemental, materialistic society of ours.
If these people are still able to make a living while looking so foolish, I think the whole idea of self-presentation is a sham (and if that's the case, I'm changing back into my sweatpants, folks!)
Really, now. They can't be serious. I mean, would you buy a house from this guy?
.... he looks like a Latin dance instructor, soap opera villain, or professional hustler. Or maybe all three. He doesn't look like a respectable real estate agent.
And what about this woman?
... she's not even interested enough to make eye contact. Her portrait gives the impression that she's unmotivated and avoids confrontation; anything but outgoing. The lack of effort she's put into her hairstyle also doesn't help matters... aren't real estate agents supposed to exude professionalism, trust, and confidence? The poor woman is the opposite; she's more like the poster girl for a crisis help line.
Moving right along, there's this lady:
Is she a church lady, a school bus driver, or the chain smoking bingo-playing lady from down the street? I'm not sure, but either way, I would never buy a house from her. Or a low-cost condo, for that matter.
Lastly, we have this guy, who, despite his mismatched eyebrows, appears to be one of the more prominent agents in the area:
He seems to have photoshoped himself off of another other person who originally appeared next to him in the photo — a former partner? ex-wife? we'll never know — and it adds to the intrigue.
In the end, it (like image, apparently) doesn't matter. He's still smiling, despite whatever might lie in his salty past. And you know what? Good on 'em.
Now if you'll excuse me, my sweatpants are calling my name...
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