Back in the 90s my son was in attendance (sort of) at Texas A&M. He had grown up on the ranch, riding and driving horses, working cattle, and driving trucks (that’s another story) and tractors since he was knee-high to a grasshopper or at least since could reach the pedals. He was outfitted in ball cap, shorts and flip-flops one day, walking along the sidewalk when he came upon a group of students roping (at) a roping dummy, a sawhorse with a plastic calf head attached. They were clipping snuff, wearing big black hats and boots, dressed real “punchy”. As he swung by he asked one of them if he could feel the lariat he wielded. The young man chuckled at the “greenhorn” as he handed over the rope. Now, Bill had grown up around Charros, and had learned a pretty nice “floreo” or rope spinning trick, so he commenced to spin out a little figure-eight and a crinoline. He then recoiled the rope and handed it back to the “cowboy”, who’s mouth hung open! (en boca cerrado no entran moscas – flies don’t enter in a closed mouth). “Nice rope,” he says, and walked on down the sidewalk.

Not everybody who dresses like a cowboy is one; and not everybody who don’t dress like one ain’t. Clothes don’t make the man, the man makes the clothes.