Shirts “They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed. —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby At three score years and ten I think increasingly about my shirts— which ones are fraying at the collar and which, perhaps, could be reversed? My wilful Malley’s washed too well; too much tugging at the sleeve. Some shirts I haven’t cared for greatly; the fate of others makes me grieve. I’ve never really bought a shirt that might have made Scott’s Daisy weep. Substantial? Yes. But showy? No. The Protestant in me runs deep. It saddens me, the way they wear; first the collar, then the…