it was a baseline, a standard: if you were in the frat, or even just rushing—if you were to even cross the house's threshold without being stopped—you had to look the part, and this was the bare minimum. khakis. a tucked-in button-down. a belt. leather shoes. a haircut and a clean shave.
the brothers of sigma nu groaned and complained they looked like dorky, old-fashioned clones, but the frat's president had seen enough t-shirts and basketball shorts. enough sneakers and slides. enough mop tops and mullets and fades. it was time for tradition, a classic style, the masculinity that real brotherhood can foster with proper encouragement, structure, and discipline.
they'd be new men by the fall.





















