Yes, my last name starts with the letter V, and V is also the name of a miniseries. Oh, and a recently remade show of the same name starring Laura Vandervoort, Lord bless her beautiful soul. But that’s not at all what this post is about. This post is about V-necks.
As a young boy, I remember grumbling at the thought of ever sporting a V-neck. My dad wore V-necks, and therefore, they were an old man’s garment. I remember my dad’s chest hair freely searching for my approval as it erupted like a volcanic black spring from behind the fabric. Never, I swore. Never. Once I entered my teenage years, I started to develop a sense of style, noticing different unique variations of fashion and designs. I became selective with what I would wear. I wanted to hand-pick my wardrobe. Then I could take all the credit when I looked awesome, right?
Now, one thing to note is my passion for music. Particularly rock music. It just, well, rocks. So throughout high school and college, I grew my hair out. Hey, all my favorite bands were doing it, so I was gonna do it.
Then…I was re-introduced to The V. Of course, I had seen V-necks before, on gorgeous women and Suspect B, my pops. I knew it was okay for women to wear V-necks. After all, their affiliation with this type of shirt allowed many young teenage hormones to erupt. But could rock stars really pull it off? Could it become a thing? Well, said rock stars have gotten away with far worse. Eye-liner, odd piercings, tats, etc. How bad could a V-neck really be? So…I…experimented. I tried one on, against my better judgment. What business did a young man have wearing a V-neck? I thought. I’m not previously mentioned hot chick with grandiose cleavage. Nor am I my father. Still, I could not deny this attraction. I could not deny this connection…between the V and me.
But I couldn’t be buying into a fad. I knew it was more intimate than that. This V understood me in ways no one else did. It fit. It felt right. It. Loved. Me. I knew after wearing several of its kin that it was now my favorite kind of shirt to wear.
Jeans. Fly Shoes. And the V. That’s the ultimate Evega wardrobe.
It’s freer. It’s smoother. Yes, I must often deal with the raised right eyebrow. And yes, occasionally I am forced to defend the V’s honor, to prove that it is indeed the one defining part of a man’s wardrobe. It’s not afraid to say,“Yes, I may be misidentified as a metrosexual, but so what!” It glares at scoffers who suggest it’s meant only for gorgeous, full-figured dames. The V is Man. In an economy as unsure as this one…in a world as scary as ours, we need the V now more than ever.
Take pride in your clothing. Rebel against the stereotypical, and embrace your wardrobe, as I did. No, I’m no longer following a trend. I’ve since cut my hair, shower occasionally, and yes, ladies, I even trim my…nails.
Pick your poison: Regular V or Deep V. Either way, you’re cool. Canadians welcome. Don’t hate the V. Your future girlfriend will thank you for it.
Thanks to Laura, Megan, blessthefall, and whoever that dude from Gossip Girl is, for the hot picks.
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