I never buy short sleeve shirts because I’d miss rolling up my sleeves. My father died in 1997. I can still picture him on sunny days, his long white shirt sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows. His forearms hanging loosely by his sides. His brown skin gleaming against the white. His shirt tucked into his trousers, which sat high at the waist. Leather belt. Leather shoes. This was his style. It was the style of another era.
Style can seem supericial, but we expect a lot from it. We expect it to tell a story about us. Class, sexuality, gender. Who we aspire to be. Where we come from.