My Dad was a doctor and his shirts had to be perfect or the nurses would talk about what a lousy wife my mother was
( her paranioa I'm sure ) She would wash and dry his shirts, sprinkle them with water and roll them into a tight cylinder. I can still see then stacked on the dryer in the kitchen where we ate lunch. About Thursday she would iron, (the whole day if you asked her) and my Dad's white shirts would fill the closet.
She thought she'd died and gone to heaven when they brought out permanent press, and my Dad was just as happy with them. But all we girls, 3 of us, knew how iron shirts.
I was shocked when I married my second husband to find he ironed his own shirts. He got into that habit because that was a quiet time for him while he memorized his Masonic rites.
MaryKatherine