I’ve been feeling fairly invincible since I got the hoodie. I’ll get a little closer to the burning building. I’ll wade farther into the angry mob. The threat of gunfire is not so worrisome and snarling dogs have lost their menace. The hood hangs over the collar of my coat like dangling bravado. What have I to fear?

If clothes make the man, I’m a hood rat from way back.

The hooded sweatshirt is charcoal gray cotton, and it zips up the center. It’s got strings to tighten the hood and pockets on either side. I feel five times more imposing and I’m pretty sure I’m a few inches taller.

All that for 8 bucks at Wal-Mart.

I’m telling you, get yourself a hoodie. Whether you’re a doctor, a librarian or an undertaker, one of these babies will change your life.

Quit laughing at me. You have your own empowering wardrobe, and you know it. An old leather coat that makes you confident with the ladies. A pair of boots that inspire you to tell off your boss and demand that your husband wash the dishes. And old baseball hat that leads you to believe you are Babe-by-God-Ruth and you can challenge the whole neighborhood to a home-run derby.

The psychology of a wardrobe is very real. When we were kids, we had denim jackets. Only back then, we called them dungaree jackets and the more tattered, the better. The denim made us stand out from the rest of the pack. There was us and there were the dorks who wore Izod, with little alligators on their shirts and socks.

We let blue or red bandannas hang from our back pockets or wore them around our heads. These were the days before gang colors, although the concept is similar. Spot a guy with a denim coat and a bandanna and you know it’s OK to ask for a cigarette when you’re skipping your fifth-period class.

But I’m straying from the point. The most empowering accessories are the personal ones, those that are significant only to you. The smelly sneakers, the torn T-shirts, the old jeans that should have been thrown away years ago.

I have a friend who is a perfect lady unless she’s wearing her fingerless gloves. When she dons those babies, she turns mean. She’ll snarl when she jots down notes. She’ll get in your face if you don’t provide the answers she wants. Those deformed gloves are her version of the Superman cape. I wanted to ask her about it once, but I believe she might have thrashed me. And I wasn’t wearing the hoodie at the time.

I have a buddy who wears a winter coat that makes his shoulders look huge. I know a guy who wears goofy winter hats to get his game on.

I have a boss you just don’t mess with when he’s wearing his Bombadier jacket. There’s another who has an intimidating pair of black boots. I swear, I’ve seen images of little reporters scratched into the heel of those boots, one for every journalist she’s stomped over the years.

Primitive man wore necklaces made from the bones of beasts he’d killed. Modern man goes with high-top sneakers or a spiffy tie. It’s inherent, this need to distinguish yourself from the legions of people who surround you.

The power suit. The baggy jeans that ride low on the hips. The big, puffy jackets that make people look like they’re wearing inflatable rafts. I suppose the sweater vest may empower some people, but only to lofty ambitions like a chess tournament or a quilting bee.

You do what you have to in order to inject a little confidence into your basement-level esteem. Me, it’s all about the hoodie. I’ll brave staggering heights. I’ll take my chances walking in traffic. I only wish I had a fifth-grade class to skip.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter and wardrobe consultant.