I have been hearing for some time that men have become more interested in fashion. That’s nice for those men; I’m not one of them. I am more likely to glory in finding a particularly comfortable pair of jeans, in microfibre magic dress pants (crumple them up, stuff them in a suitcase, marvel as they then still look like they’ve been freshly pressed as soon as you shake them out) than to worry about what’s in and out in a given year.
Alas, no more.
Because when I went to buy a couple of shirts I discovered that it appears men must now suffer the pain women have known for years: shops full of ugly crap because someone, somewhere decided this years is the year that clothes should be risible. Pastel colours of yesteryear, rendered in polyester, are apparently “in” for men’s shirts. If you want to look like of avant-garde plastic kitchenware from the seventies, this is a marvellous thing. I, however, do not. In the fashion-free days of the past lamented by some, I would still posses an abundance of choices.
Now? Well, apparently a concern for fashion dictates one wears crap, or goes naked.