I’m going to be the man who wears a turtleneck all the time. My event calendar will be full. I will go to parties. My turtleneck will be my defining trait. I will make unremarkable chit chat. I will not make a verbal impression on people. People will know me by my turtleneck alone. They will not feel the need to memorize my facial features. If I remove my turtleneck, people will not know who I am. I will not speak about my turtleneck, even when prompted. I will change the subject away from my turtleneck often. I will wear my turtleneck regardless of the weather. My turtleneck will not be brightly colored. I will not accessorize my turtleneck. I will pretend my turtleneck is comfortable when it is hot outside. Children will navigate large crowds by whether or not they run back into the man wearing a turtleneck. My turtleneck will be my only defining feature.
 
After wearing a turtleneck for many years, I will disappear.
 
People will faintly recall a man they used to see at the supermarket or at gatherings wearing a turtleneck. But they won’t have a name to go with the face. They won’t have a face. Just the turtleneck. And the truth is that I will not disappear at all. I will merely remove my turtleneck. Building up the facade of a turtleneck wearing man is the perfect way to craft a disposable identity. One I can shed at a moment’s notice. Still free to walk amongst those I had called friends and neighbors for years. And why? To become a secret agent, of course.
 
The oldest trick in the book.