A wrinkle-free shirt is like a football uniform without grass stains: It makes you look third string. Hesitant. Pretty. It makes you look correct, yes, but life isn't correct; it's wrinkled. Anyway, wrinkles are a badge. They're evidence that we've hailed a cab or reached for our wallets or leaned back in our chairs or fought something. They're proof that we've moved. A wrinkle-free shirt is for someone who wants to cover his tracks. It's a safe choice, and in style, safety is not a virtue. Texture is. We should look flawless only when we're standing in front of the mirror in the morning and congratulating ourselves on how wonderful we are. Then, starting immediately, our clothes should start gathering a history. Attempting to convince everyone around us that we look this sparkly, this utterly without stain or spoil, is pretending we're someone we're not. It's hiding. And if it comes down to hiding, and it always does, then we'll just put on our jacket.

McCammon, Ross. "The Endorsement: The Rumpled Shirt." Esquire Mar. 2009: 76.