They have adopted a uniform, these people who call themselves "free." They walk about in fields of indigo, rough cloth brushing their legs. The cloth fits some loosely, perched precariously around hips and dragging at the knees. Others wear the rough canvas close and tight, contouring the curves of the thighs and calves. Some wear blue as dark as midnight, dip after dip in the indigo dye. Others wear it washed out so far it is barely there, a mere nod to the blue to show conformity with the uniform. They stride about, these people. They notice each other, sure, the slouching sagging blue; the tight-fitting, curving blue. But they see it not as blue. They see it not as rough canvas. This uniform is ubiquitous, and not so much imposed as assumed. It is the product of social pressure, and it is so insidious that people do not see it as anything except "what everyone wears," if they think about it at all. They who wear such a riot of colors on their upper bodies see nothing odd in that their legs all match. They are so enamored with this uniform that they cannot imagine wearing anything else, and chafe at the idea of skirts or slacks. They follow. I follow. I love the blue.
And, purely for everyone's edification, here's some indigo I found on Wikipedia: