Vinci Philosophy-A-llegro Regular Fit Dress Shirt Solid Pink Color Shirt with Convertible Cuff Design Pocket at left chest. 67% Cotton, 29% Polyester, 4% Spandex, Style ID: S-S100. Available sizes: Neck： 14.5-21.5， Sleeve： 32-33, 34-35, 36-37. Visit stores or give a call to the store at https://vincisuits.com/stores/ Find your style in our lookbooks, download here https://vincisuits.com/new-lookbook/ Receive your suits 1-5 business day domestic shipping within USA. Vinci Philosophy-www.vincisuits.com
Vinci Philosophy-Charcoal double breasted 2 pcs glen plaid suit regular fit side vents with adjustable waist band flat front pants, style F-DRW2. Available sizes 38R-56R, 40L-56L.
Visit stores or give a call to the store at https://vincisuits.com/stores/ Find your style in our lookbooks, download here https://vincisuits.com/new-lookbook/ Receive your suits 1-5 business day domestic shipping within USA. Vinci Philosophy-www.vincisuits.com
your new manager called you into the office to talk to you, but something on his screens caught your eye. the spirals reflected into your boss’ gelled hair.
At twenty two, they have perfected the art of looking expensive and unreachable.
They are not simply bored. Boredom is too small a word for what they have cultivated. They are performing indifference as if it were a family crest. Their father has dragged them here again, into one of his formal rooms, into one of his formal afternoons, into another endless display of furniture, history, discipline, expectations and money they did not earn. They stand and sit as though the room itself is an inconvenience arranged around them.
They know he is rich. Obviously. They know he was not always rich. He tells that story too often. Something about effort, risk, humiliation, discipline, hunger, work and not having a father to rescue him. They have stopped listening to the details. The money arrived before they were old enough to ask where it came from, and in their private logic that means the money belongs to the weather. It simply exists. It falls around them. It pays for shoes, clubs, cars, tailors, hotels, rooms they leave wrecked behind them and apologies somebody else makes on their behalf.
Their father sees them in the photograph and does not see sons. He sees expensive driftwood. Two blond ornaments wrapped in tailoring and vanity. Two young men who believe that beauty is a profession, that arrogance is personality, and that a father’s patience is infinite.
They feel none of that yet. They feel only the heavy dullness of being made to attend.
Inside, they are rehearsing contempt. They are thinking of leaving early. They are thinking of messages unanswered, parties missed, mirrors waiting elsewhere. They are thinking that their father will talk, and talk, and talk, and then eventually tire himself out.
They have no idea this is the last afternoon in which that strategy works.
When you look closer you can see it. This is the face of privilege before it realizes it has been standing on a trapdoor.
They are close enough now that their boredom becomes almost insulting. The eyelids are too heavy. The mouths too controlled. The hair falls forward with exactly the kind of careless beauty that has always made people forgive them too quickly. Their father hates that most of all. Not the hair itself, though he hates that too. He hates what the hair says.
It says: I do not have to see clearly. It says: I do not have to look you in the eye. It says: I can hide behind softness and still be admired.
The twins think the hair makes them look poetic, untouchable, slightly ruined in the fashionable way. They like that people have to search for their eyes. They like that their faces arrive through curls and shadow. It gives them an advantage. It lets them look away without appearing to look away.
Their father watches them and feels the old rage of a man who built himself from hard edges. He did not survive by being vague. He did not make money by drifting under curls. He did not claw his way upward so his sons could become decorative fog.
The twins feel the first flicker of discomfort here, though they do not yet understand it. Their father has gone quiet. Not angry in the usual way. Quiet in the dangerous way. Quiet in the way rooms become before a storm breaks.
For the first time that afternoon, they wonder whether they should have stayed home.
By now they are standing together with that practiced twin arrogance that has always worked in public. Two beautiful problems. Two mirrored disappointments. Two heirs who still believe being looked at is the same thing as being valued.
They feel safe because they match.
That has always been their secret armor. Alone, either of them might be corrected. Together, they become a spectacle. People soften around them. Their bad manners become charming. Their laziness becomes aesthetic. Their father’s complaints become old man noise against the glow of two young men who have never had to prove they are useful.
They think the afternoon is merely another lecture. Their father looks at them and sees the entire failure clearly. The suits are costly but empty. The posture is theatrical but weak. The faces are handsome but untrained. The eyes are hidden, the mouths sulky, the hair ridiculous, the bodies relaxed by too much comfort. He has paid for every advantage and received two ornamental rebels in return.
What the twins feel is irritation. What their father feels is decision. They do not notice the shift at first. They notice only that he stops trying to persuade them.
That should have terrified them.
The first true panic arrives when their father tells them the truth.
Not the usual truth. Not the lecture about waste, reputation, responsibility and family name. They are prepared for that. They know the rhythm of it. They can survive that with lowered eyes and an apology polished smooth enough to be useless.
This truth is different. He tells them he is a wizard.
The twins almost laugh. Almost. They expect some bitter metaphor, some old fashioned speech about power, discipline and shaping one’s own fate. But then the air tightens. The room seems to hold its breath. Their hands stop responding. Their feet root to the floor. Their mouths open, not because they choose to protest, but because their bodies are suddenly honest in a way their manners have never been.
They cannot move.
The panic is immediate and humiliatingly physical. Their first instinct is not bravery. It is not cleverness. It is not defiance. It is the raw animal need to run, to plead, to hide behind money, to call someone, to blame each other, to promise anything. But every escape route ends inside their own frozen bodies.
Their father stands before them with the calm of a man finally using the correct tool. He says he will model them into the sons he deserves.
The word model lands like a hand at the back of the neck. Not punish. Not advise. Not encourage. Model. As in shape. As in correct. As in remove the parts he no longer accepts.
They are still trying to speak when the transformation begins.
The hair goes first because he has hated it longest. They feel it before they understand it. A coldness at the scalp. A tightening at the temples. The weight of curls lifting away from their faces as if an invisible barber has gripped their vanity by the roots. Their beautiful curtain of blond softness, the shield they wore like rebellion, is taken from them without negotiation.
The shock is intimate. Hair has always been their easiest confidence. They could arrive late, speak cruelly, behave uselessly, and still somebody would forgive them because the hair fell just so. Now their foreheads are exposed. Their eyes are exposed. Their expressions have nowhere to hide.
Then comes the discipline.
Short back and sides. Sharp around the ears. The nape cleared. The sides reduced to obedience. The top forced into a severe middle part, flattened and trained with such merciless gloss that it no longer feels like hair but like a polished verdict. The pomade is heavy. Wet. Dense. It presses the scalp with a cold, lacquered finality. Every comb groove feels like a rule carved into them.
They want to shake their heads. They want to dislodge it. They want one loose strand, one sign that they are still themselves. Nothing moves.
That is the horror of it. Not that it looks old fashioned. Not even that it looks strict. It is that the hairstyle refuses them. It does not flirt. It does not fall. It does not excuse. It sits on their heads like discipline made visible.
Their father tells them this is how their hair will be worn now and forever. The worst part is that they believe him.
The clothes change next, and the twins discover that fabric can be more humiliating than a lecture.
Their expensive playboy tailoring does not simply vanish. It is corrected. Refitted into something sturdier, heavier, older and far less forgiving. The new grey flannel has none of the lazy glamour they prefer. It has weight. Texture. Moral opinion. It does not drape around them like luxury. It holds them in place.
The jackets become Norfolk jackets, belted and structured, the kind of clothing that assumes a young man should have duties before opinions. Waistcoats settle beneath them with neat, suffocating order. The trousers shorten into knickerbockers, gathered at the knee with an absurd precision that makes their legs feel suddenly public. The argyle socks rise high, burgundy and formal, turning their calves into a lesson in controlled pattern.
Then the shoes. Their father chooses polished black T bar shoes with devastating calm. That detail wounds them more than they expect. Designer shoes used to be their silent proof that they belonged to the beautiful, careless world. These new shoes are not ugly. That would be easier. They are worse than ugly. They are correct. Shined, formal, traditional, unromantic. Shoes for sons who do as they are told.
Underneath, the final private insult arrives. Silky boxers, chosen for comfort and vanity, are replaced by strict white cotton underwear. Plain. Conservative. Unflattering by design. The sort of underwear that does not seduce, does not advertise, does not suggest nightlife, does not belong to men who call themselves irresistible. Sock garters complete the sentence.
The twins feel the clips and tension at their knees and understand that their father has not merely dressed them. He has edited their assumptions. Every layer says: your body now belongs to discipline before display.
Their father studies them again and finds them still too modern. That is when the collars rise.
The high rounded stiff starched collars close around their necks with ceremonial cruelty. They feel the pressure immediately. It is not choking, but it is constantly present, a white wall of starch holding the chin up and the throat still. Their old shirts allowed slouching, flirtation, looseness, escape. These collars allow posture.
The burgundy bow ties follow. Not casually tied. Not rakish. Fixed, centered, obedient. The color recalls the old tie, but the effect is entirely different. What used to be a fashionable accent has become a badge of correction. Then their contact lenses disappear.
The world blurs for one terrible second. They panic because sight has always been part of control. Then the glasses arrive. Thick black frames. Heavy. Traditional. Slightly magnifying. The kind that refuse glamour and amplify every startled movement of the eyes. They feel them settle on the bridge of the nose like a public announcement: these boys have been revised.
When the braces appear, something in the spell slips. A metallic pressure flashes across their teeth. Their mouths, already open in protest, catch the unfamiliar edges. The sensation is absurdly intimate. Their smiles, formerly easy weapons, have been taken over by wire and order. For one brief second, the freeze breaks enough for shock to escape.
They cry out. Hands shoot up. Eyes go wide behind the new lenses. They are not posing now. They are caught between outrage and disbelief, between wanting to scream and feeling the terrible childishness of screaming through braces.
Their father freezes them again before the protest becomes language. The room returns to stillness.
Their new collars gleam but their father is not finished.
He says the playboy days are over. They hear the phrase and, for the first time, understand that he does not mean behavior alone. He means symbol. He means spectacle. He means he will make the end visible.
The suspenders loosen. The knickerbockers drop.
The twins feel the sudden shift at the waist, the dreadful slide of fabric, the cool air at their thighs, the instant collapse of dignity into farce. It is not indecent. That almost makes it worse. Everything remains modest, covered, old fashioned, even respectable in its way. But socially, it is catastrophic.
Their father has found the precise line between harmless and devastating.
There they stand, still in formal jackets, collars, bow ties and polished shoes, with their former authority pooled uselessly around their ankles. The conservative white underwear is plain, long, unforgiving. The sock garters are visible proof that even the hidden parts of them have been reorganized. Nothing about the scene is dangerous. Nothing is cruel in the dramatic sense. It is worse. It is ridiculous.
They feel heat climb from their collars to their ears. The stiff collars prevent them from tucking their chins down properly. The glasses magnify their panic. The braces make their open mouths feel even more exposed. Their hands fly upward in useless alarm, but there is nothing to negotiate with.
Their father watches the lesson take effect. For the first time in years, both twins feel small. He unfreezes them at exactly the wrong moment.
A gossip reporter is already there. They do not understand how. They only register the flash. White, brutal, immediate. It hits their faces before thought can arrange itself into dignity. Their eyes widen. Their mouths open. Their hands move too late, grabbing at themselves, their clothes, their remaining composure. The camera catches the whole truth before they can manufacture a lie.
The flash is worse than magic because magic happened privately. This is public. They can already imagine the headline. They can imagine former friends zooming in. They can imagine messages arriving, not with sympathy, but with hunger. They can imagine every party, every club, every person they ever looked down on seeing them as something other than untouchable.
The father does not look embarrassed. That terrifies them more than the camera. He has chosen this. He has not lost control. He has staged the lesson with the precision of a man signing a contract.
Their pleading begins as soon as their tongues work.
Father, please. Father, no. Father, you cannot. Father, this is insane. Father, we learned. Father, we will change.
He listens as if they are explaining bad weather to a stone wall.
They realize then that the worst has already happened. Not the photograph. Not the clothes. Not the braces or glasses or garters. The worst is that their father has stopped believing in their promises.
The body tries to solve what the mind cannot. They bend forward instinctively, as if reducing their height might reduce the disaster. It is a ridiculous strategy and they know it while doing it. Their shoulders rise. Their elbows clamp inward. Their knees bend. Their hands lock down with theatrical urgency. Their faces remain aimed toward the camera because the flash has trapped them in the one direction they most want to avoid.
They feel like they have become a comedy scene against their will. That is the strange cruelty of it. Their panic is real, but the result is funny. The more earnestly they try to preserve dignity, the more completely dignity abandons them. The stiff collars keep their necks formal even while their bodies fold. The bow ties remain neat. The jackets stay correct. The shoes shine. The underwear is modest and proper. Everything is respectable except the situation.
Their father has created the perfect punishment for spoiled sons: not pain, not danger, not scandal in the dark sense, but absurdity. Public absurdity. The kind that cannot be argued away because everybody can see it.
They want to vanish. Instead, the flash gets brighter. By now they are not thinking like heirs. They are thinking like boys caught doing something unforgivably stupid in a hallway.
One knee turns inward. One foot tries to step. The fallen knickerbockers refuse cooperation. The polished T bar shoes hold the floor with humiliating neatness. The socks, garters and white cotton layers remain perfectly visible, as if every garment has sworn loyalty to their father rather than to them.
They try to sneak away without really moving. That is what makes it unbearable. Their old life was movement. Cars. Doors opening. Staff clearing paths. Parties parting around them. Now they cannot even retreat from the room without negotiating with the clothes around their ankles.
The twins feel panic sharpen into a new, awful knowledge: their father has made disobedience impractical.
Not impossible. Impractical. Undignified. Inefficient. Ridiculous. Every instinct toward escape now creates more comedy. Every attempt to hide confirms there is something to hide. Every movement becomes evidence.
They look toward the camera with the huge, helpless eyes of young men who have finally discovered consequence, and consequence is wearing a burgundy bow tie.
Months later
Months later, the shock has become routine. That is the detail that would have horrified their earlier selves most. Not that they were changed. Not that they were photographed. Not even that the world laughed. It is that the new life did not collapse after one terrible afternoon. It continued. Morning after morning, collar after collar, polish after polish, tray after tray.
They now stand at attention in their father’s mansion, holding food for guests with careful hands. The trays are heavier than they expected when one is not allowed to lounge, lean or complain. The silver edges press into their palms. The glasses tremble if their posture slips. The French cuffs sit cleanly at the wrists, properly shaped this time, bright and formal beneath the grey flannel sleeves. They have learned to notice such things because their father notices everything.
The collars are still high. Still rounded. Still starched. Still impossible to forget. The bow ties sit at their throats like seals on a document. The waistcoats are buttoned. The burgundy argyle socks rise correctly. The T bar shoes shine because they shined them.
The braces show when they smile. They used to hate that most. Now they hate that they have learned how to smile with them.
Serving guests should feel like degradation, but the humiliating part is more complicated. They are good at it. They know where to stand. They know when to lower their eyes and when to meet a guest’s gaze. They know how to carry a tray without clatter. They know how to answer politely. They know how to move through the room without making the room about them.
Their father watches from across the mansion with the calm satisfaction of a self made man who has finally invested in the right correction.
The twins still remember their old selves. Of course they do. They remember the loose hair, the expensive shoes, the parties, the arrogant boredom, the belief that life would always bend around them.
But memory is not escape. The collars hold. The shoes shine. The trays stay level.
And when a guest smiles and says what well mannered young gentlemen they have become, both twins feel the strange, hot, helpless conflict of shame and pride rising under the starch.
Their father wanted model sons. To their horror, he is getting them.
There's something so powerful about accepting this is the way I should dress, and feeling that take over me. Today this is my attire while I'm working from home and the collar around my neck and fit of my shorts reminds me I'm a good boy.
Equally it feels great encouraging one of my preppy friends to embrace this way of being, getting him to listen to hypnosis daily, slowly changing his mindset and then attire and appearance feels so good, like this is how all boys should dress and show off proper attire.
Matt was sat in his Dad's work van eating his lunch after just finishing up a job earlier in the morning.
But just before he was about to start eating, his Dad, Chris, knocked on the side of the door, shouting at him to check his phone for a new job they just got.
Disgruntled, Matt stuffed his face and put in the address of their new job as Chris got in and started driving.
As an hour went by, the father and son duo became increasingly confused as their sat-nav started to glitch out as they drove through the winding country roads. That was until they came across a grand manor at the end of the road...
The two got out of the van, grabbed their tools and knocked on the front door, being greeted by the owner, Mr. Henderson.
"Come on lads... the jobs' downstairs in the wine cellar."
Matt headed down into the cellar while Christ headed back to the van for their tools.
"What's the problem then man?" he asked, looking around the perfect cellar, not a single bottle out of place or stain on the wall, "looks perfect down here, what're we even here for?"
"You're here because I want your service..." Mr. Henderson said with a deep voice, taking a few steps ahead of Matt, pulling something out of his pocket.
"What's that?" Matt asked
"Just a tool to help with your service" Mr. Henderson responded, pushing Matt to the ground, planting the ears on his head.
Matt slowly fell backward, slouching against a shelf of wine, Mr. Henderson whispering in his ear...
"You're contracted to me now boy... you will serve me..."
After 5 minutes of conditioning, Matt had completed his transformation and a new uniformed hugged tight to his body.
"I am your butler slave Sir." droned Matt
"Very good, now, make your old man like you as well."
"Yes Sir."
Matt marched upstairs to where his Dad was stood on his phone, and called for him to come down to the cellar to work on a busted pipe.
As Chris made his way down the stairs, Matt sneaked up behind him and put another pair of ears onto him, making him fall to the ground. The control of the ears was too much for Chris to handle.
Mr. Henderson came up next, whispering the same mantra into Chris's ear, and after 5 minutes, Chris too had a new uniform encase his body.
"Ready to obey Sir." Chris moaned
"Good, go and join your son, my toy, when I require your assistance I shall call on you both."
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