For most of my life, the male v-neck was a non-starter. That cut of shirt was for undershirts only: the only place you saw them was on older men trying to keep their pits unstained until at least lunch, and you only saw its silhouette under a light-colored button down. V-necks were beyond a “don’t,” more like a “can’t” as they weren’t even available.
My friend Matt once tried to save a couple bucks at the Van Halen concert. While I had ponied up 30 bucks for an official high-quality piece of legitimate intellectual property, he waited until after the show and bought a bootleg shirt from a guy in lot. As we walked away, he unfolded the shirt and held it up.
“IT’S A V-NECK! NOOOOOO!”
Matt tried to get his money back, but it turns out that guys using shopping carts as storefronts in the parking lot of a hockey arena have fairly draconian return policies.
Now you see them everywhere. Man’s fashion is cyclical and having gone through enormous, droopy jeans and stovepipe-thin skinny jeans, we’ll probably be back at bell-bottoms or acid-washed soon. Everything changes; nothing lasts.
Bobby, however, will still be the only one wearing those fucking manpris.