They want men to be men, I suspect, but not on a spectrum of masculinity, more of a concentrated laser beam. They want a sort of textbook maleness, blueprinted in the Wakatatee- You can’t fix stupid not even with duct tape shirt ’50s, seeped through with testosterone and housewives. They want their men cartoonishly muscular, drinking six-dozen eggs like Gaston. The “I’ll Make a Man out of You” montage in Mulan. They want Leonardo DiCaprio fighting a bear and sleeping in the carcass of a horse. Their women, one assumes, need to be docile and discreet damsels, privately sexual but publicly demure, ready to be gobbled like Nigella puddings. Traditionalists don’t want to cross the streams of archaic gender, like mixing the dips at a Christmas party. I’m keen to know where they stand on culottes or the kilt or hair below the earlobe, but like Fashion Week, it’s all about dresses.