Failing at wearing it and keeping it perfect, I began to consider the white shirt for what it is, and for what all clothes that someone chooses for themselves ultimately are — a costume. The second white shirt I acquired (and still own) was an exaggerated spiritual successor to the first, a piece by the designer Viktor Luna that looked part-clothing item, part-bug skeleton, with huge, ruched sleeves that stood up by the sheer power of their formidable design and towered high above my own relatively small shoulders. It looked like it could almost stand up by itself, like it didn’t even need a human body inside of it, and when I put it on, it felt like the armor of a persona. I wore it to performances, and to a drag show, and really whenever I wanted to get looked at. And I’d learned something from that first experience with a white shirt — I needed to work harder than normal to keep it looking its best. So when I took it off, if I noticed the collar or armpit seam was turning dingy, I dropped it off for dry cleaning. This piece still remains in my closet, renewed into something perfect because of effort, and it rarely gets worn because I can’t rise to its occasion very often.