Looking Presidential

From Rachel Toor

Those of us who are cheered about recent events in the national political landscape know what's to come: increased scrutiny on what it means to look "presidential." Plenty of higher ed leaders are all too familiar with this kind of attention.

One president talked about what it's like to live in a college town, aware that she is recognized when she goes to Target with unwashed hair tucked under a baseball cap and wearing workout clothes. She said she's decided she has to be okay with that.

She also said that there's a photo of her captured in a moment of spontaneous joy where she doesn't look at all presidential. To her surprise, she got a huge number of compliments on that image. People said, "You're so real."

What does it mean to seem "real" and why do we buy into ideas of what "presidential" looks like? Maybe as we move from a model of bow-tied older dudes in suits, presidents will look more like, well, America.

Though it's not going to be easy. Here's a note I got recently:

I feel the need to gather all my strength for the coming year, not only as a college president, but particularly as a Black man who is president of a predominantly white institution. It is hard to imagine what we may have in store as we build toward the presidential election.

In our current environment, the color of Kamala Harris's skin immediately invites a critique of her potential replacement of Biden as a DEI-inspired sop to "key Democratic constituencies," despite her extraordinary record of accomplishment.

Meanwhile, J.D. Vance is trumpeted as proof of what "real" meritocracy produces, and the Trump/Vance ticket is what the American presidency is supposed to look like. I would assume that for many people, their vision for higher education leadership is no different.

Right. And, not that we need to be done with all the white guys. (Reader, I married one.) Now is a great time to celebrate the kind, compassionate, and plain awesome presidential dudes I'm in frequent contact with.

As the WaPo's brilliant Monica Hesse wrote recently, "After all, not all good men are Midwestern or dads. Soon I realized the perfect term had already been coined. 'Tim Walz has tonic masculinity,' I saw several fans write online. Yes. That. Tim Walz has tonic masculinity. Confident. Decent. The kind of man who, as another user joked, would start his job at the White House 'being asked about national security and the tax code and end with him wearing a headlamp up in the attic fixing some old wiring.' ”

Tonic masculinity. Yes. That.

The writer is a current president

Whenever I start a job, I share with my new colleagues a list of my expectations, workstyle, and idiosyncrasies.

The most important thing for them to know is that my hair appointments are sacrosanct. Once a week I drive an hour and a half each way to get my hair done. Many of my colleagues are presidents of institutions in small towns like the one my college is in and have similar long weekly commutes to their hairdresser.

As an African American female president, my sistah-presidents and I often talk with one another about our hair. We think about what hairstyle our often more-conservative boards and alumni will find acceptable for a Black female college president. We wonder what people might assume about our political persuasion or gender expression based on certain looks.

As sistah-presidents we consider what it signifies to sport a natural hairstyle, which is sometimes easier to maintain, and what stereotypes some people have of Black women who wear their hair sans relaxers, weaves or wigs (yes some of us wear wigs from time to time). I have no idea about Kamala Harris’s hair type or texture, though I can only imagine what folks would say if she sported an Angela Davis style ‘fro or sister-locs on the campaign trail.

Certainly female presidents who are not African American think about and are judged on their hairstyles and physical appearance. However, I’ve never heard a white female president tell me that someone asked if they could touch their hair (or just thought it would be okay to touch their hair without asking), or asked them how long a particular hairstyle took, or whether their hair was actually theirs (rule of thumb; if I paid for it, it’s mine).

My cousin asked why I cared what folks on campus thought about my hair and told me I should be bold and confident enough to wear whatever style I wanted. If only I thought my campus was truly ready for the real me. Remember the scene in How to Get Away with Murder when Annaliese Keating pulled off her wig? Ask yourself why you thought that was so powerful.

Maybe one day the world will be ready for an authentic got-to-be-real Black woman.

The writer is a current president

I’m heading into the third year of my first presidency and I’ve yet to be comfortable seeing myself in pictures.

If someone had warned me that I would be subjecting myself to a close-read of my clothes, hair, makeup, double chin so often I’d at least have steeled myself. I'm lucky to have a chief of staff who has done well to train the photographers how to photograph a stout, large-chested woman.

But feeling presidential and looking presidential seemed, until recently, two very different things. One thing that helped me was to hire a stylist.Yes. Can you imagine!? But after spending a day with her acquiring a total new wardrobe, makeup, and undergarments I started to actually look the way I felt—confident, approachable, hip, and put together. I now understand what looks good on me and the importance of how I feel in clothes.

And I discovered Botox.Yes, I said that too. I am too young to wear the mask of my father’s beloved wrinkled brow or my mother’s hooded eyes. I want to look in the mirror and see myself. A little Botox helped me and I am not too proud to admit it to anyone who notices that I seem better rested. I look like I am awake at least and can pay attention to the angle of my head in photos so my Nana’s double chin isn’t so pronounced.

As I enter my third year, I am bolstered by the fact that in person and in pictures, I act, look, and feel presidential.

The writer is a former president

The pressures to "look like a president" were out of this world.

I was repeatedly told I was too short to be a president (I’m average height for an American woman). People frequently commented on my earrings, the color of my lipstick, whether I had enough foundation on, the height of my heels. Even as I write this, I feel pressure to assure you readers that, yes, I know how to dress professionally. I wore suits and dresses and make-up.

But I was foolish enough to think that maybe I could meet the expectations and people would stop commenting on my body, so I decided to accommodate somewhat and started wearing more makeup than I normally would. The real kicker was when someone criticized the fact that I wasn’t wearing makeup even though I was wearing makeup.

Oddly, the advice was often contradictory: people said they loved how “authentic” I was, but then showed up with clothes and jewelry for me to wear. How exactly do you tell a donor, "No, I don’t want to wear your very ugly jewelry"?

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