Living in Linen From June to September
Three shirts, two pairs of trousers, and the quiet luxury of not thinking about it.
There is a version of summer dressing that involves decisions every morning, and there is the version where you buy well once and stop paying attention. This is an argument for the second.
Linen creases. That is the entire objection to it, and it is not really an objection — it is a description. The fabric announces that it has been worn, sat in, travelled in. A linen shirt at the end of a long day looks like the day happened.
What actually earns its place
Three shirts is the number. One white, one in something close to sand, one dark enough to wear at night. Two pairs of trousers, both loose. Everything washes together and nothing needs an iron, because the point of the cloth is that pressing it is beside the point.
It is a small kind of freedom, and it lasts about four months a year.
