This 'bag' is responsible for my posture today. I don't think I can blame it for hair-loss, but it did see me through from early on to the end of my pro life.
Back in the day, collecting airline luggage stickers was a fine art practised by a few of us who got the chance. I stuck so many onto the thing that I could no longer clean it; it saw so many beaches and suffered so much salty air in its working life, taking the strain from the States to Singapore with many stops, very often, in lots of places in-between. That happy wear meant that those tickets would start to peel away, making it look more like a trash can than a camera case.
But disaster was avoided: the swing tickets were all hung onto the strap! God, we were a bunch of poseurs! But hey, when you felt comfortable in purple jeans, paisley pattern shirts and low-slung additional belts, Italian cowboy boots and a black leather coat, what's a decorated bag between friends? (Don't say a hussy.)
Rob C
P.S. The bag/case and I are still together, but it lives in a cupboard. Today, it's one body and lens when I go out to do imaginary battle. No bag.