When I purchased my first-ever, great-fitting pair of inky-black jeans, I made a promise to keep them that way. I never washed them, wore them until they were embarrassingly over-due for a launder, all in the quest to keep them looking so black that they made my legs look almost 2-D — like they were stamped into space.
But, two years later, my jeans are now more heather-grey than black. They're more George Clooney than Dita Von Teese — and, it turns out, I'm sort of digging them this way. Black jeans that aren't so black means you've had to launder them a dozen times or more, which means a dozen cycles' worth of escapades and romps. My black jeans are no longer new nor black and I'm much less precious about them, too (in the graph of blackness of jean and amount of adventure-having, there's a positive exponential association).