“He’s wearing fuchsia,” said Brigid.
Greg, looking up from his Franjipani sandwich, scanned the shop briefly before spotting the offender, a skinny guy in his early 20s with an electric-red stripe in his blonde hair, a fuchsia T-shirt with a random logo of a giant gear with wings that had been artificially weathered, and baggy white cargo shorts. “Oh, him,” said Greg, turning back to his sandwich. “Perhaps he just stepped out of an anime.”
“He’s wearing fuchsia!” said Brigid again.
“Are you referring to his shirt, his hair, or both?”
“Guys are not allowed to wear fuchsia,” Brigid asserted.
“Don’t care for fuchsia, eh?” said Greg.
“It’s bad enough that women wear it,” said Brigid. “We can’t have guys running around wearing it, too!”
“You tool of the patriarchy, you,” said Greg.
“Listen, Mr. Sartorial Agony, you should be right on the same page with me about this. The guy is a disaster! I should be having to restrain you from going over there and forcibly putting a Harris tweed on him.”
“No, that’s not how it works at all,” said Greg. “While it’s true that Bishounen Chic isn’t a combination I would choose for myself, it is, nevertheless, a cultivated look. That kid didn’t dress that way by accident. He has a style, and he’s expressing it. For all that fuchsia is a poke in the eye, sartorially speaking he is still on much higher moral ground than the guy who slobs around in a pocket tee and jeans because he can’t be bothered to pay attention to what he wears. Fashion A-plus? No. But definitely a passing grade.”
Brigid stared at Greg for a long second, one of her patented “What planet are you from?” looks. Then finally said, “…But he’s wearing fuchsia.”
“Yes,” said Greg. “I understand that, and I’m sorry it causes you such pain. But I’m afraid you’re just going to have to live with it.”