Surfing my way a couple of nights ago through the surfeit of channels provided by my cable television outfit, I encountered a talking head whining about a lack of imagination in the federal government’s air marshal program that supposedly protects airlines from terrorist acts.

Her point seemed to be that because the marshals allegedly are bound by a dress code that has them sporting GI haircuts and dressing in suits and ties, they “stand out like a sore thumb,” in her words, thus losing any covert advantage they might have over would-be terrorists bent on commandeering the airplane. If the terrorists know who the G-men packing heat are, and where they are sitting, the ballgame would tend to be pretty much over before it began, she suggested.

If there is, in fact, such a strict dress code, I suppose there is some merit to the woman’s contention. Still, the other side of the coin would seem to be that a marshal who forsakes the coat and tie to come off as some scruffy long-haired Joe Average in sneakers, jeans and tank top might have trouble convincing the paying customers he is The Real Deal should things turn dicey and he has occasion to pop up, elephant gun in hand, to announce that he is taking charge.

All it would take is a couple of whiskey-fueled Rambo wanna-be passengers on steroids who are not inclined to buy the marshal’s claim and are eager to become legends in their own minds and you’d have a solid recipe for disaster, I should think. In the undercover business, where blending inconspicuously into a group is the goal, there is a fine line between over-dressing and under-dressing for the occasion; between over-playing your hand and under-playing it. Secret Service agents have never been able to pull off the happy medium. Not that they have ever particularly wanted to, perhaps.

Whatever the case, thanks to their reflecting sunglasses, embedded walkie-talkie earpieces and Brooks Brothers suits that might as well have “Secret Service Agent” stenciled across the front in eyeball-searing blaze orange, these warriors stand out in a crowd like albino bucks in an Allagash deer yard.

When it comes to fooling the public, whether covertly or overtly, appearances can be pretty much everything.

(Extremely old joke: A wide-eyed kid approaches a man in uniform and asks the guy if he is a policeman. “No. I’m an undercover detective,” the man answers. “So, why then are you wearing a uniform?” asks the kid. “Because it’s my day off,” the officer replies.)

Because of his trademark buzz cut, a United States Marine posing as an undercover agent purporting to be anything but a United States Marine would have to wear a wig to be effective. Or submit to a head transplant. (Semper Fi, big guy, but that haircut’s got to go.)

As well, he’d have to lose the mandatory ramrod-straight posture and the obligation to end every sentence with “sir.”

Another outfit that would really have to work at the job of traveling incognito would be the Mormon missionary contingent.

If you cannot positively identify a pair of those well-scrubbed and dressed-alike chaps making their rounds of the neighborhood, most likely you will be a flop, as well, when it comes to spotting the approaching Jehovah’s Witness bent on buttonholing you in behalf of repentance before your lifetime warranty expires.

Undercover stuff aside, appearances can be key, as well, in tiptoeing through the mine field that is everyday life. “Never go campaigning in a Cadillac,” is the time-honored admonition of the professional politician to the fledgling office seeker, and here in The Real Maine, where putting on airs can be the kiss of death for political ambition, the principle seems sound enough. Bounce around the outback trolling for votes while dressed to the nines and driving a fancy automobile and likely as not your would-be constituents will wind up voting for your opponent – a humble man of the people who, like themselves, drives a beat-up Bondo special ’86 Chevy held together with baling wire and duct tape.

Selling anything door to door, from newspaper advertising to encyclopedias to widgets, works the same way.

Show up at the intended’s front door behind the wheel of a high-end Mercedes Benz fresh off the showroom floor and you can probably kiss the sale goodbye.

Especially if the potential client happens to be forever consigned to driving a semi-clunker of dubious pedigree. The law of the jungle is clear: When out hustling for a buck, never appear to be more prosperous than the one being hustled.

NEWS columnist Kent Ward lives in Winterport. His e-mail address is olddawg@bangordailynews.net.