Willy Wonka hated latex gloves.
They clung to his skin like brightly colored leeches, and they made the most disturbing noises every time he moved his fingers. Shaking someone's hand was an awkward affair. Even putting them on in the first place could take up a large portion of time.
Yet, most of all, Willy Wonka hated the memories the gloves carried with them.
As a boy, growing up under the care of a dentist (who had a slight case of paranoia, in his opinion), the gloves both terrified and fascinated young Willy. He rarely saw his father's bare hands. On the rare occasion that Dr. Wonka did not have a patient laying open-mouthed in his chair, and therefore ventured around his home without the protective layer, Willy often stared at the pale skin of his father's hands, mentally comparing these foreign appendages to his own. It surprised him at times how similar two pairs of hands could be.
When his father left, gloves became a symbol to Willy. A symbol of separation; of detachment. He made a point of avoiding any type of glove, even in winter, choosing instead to shove his fingers deep within the pockets of his coat if he wandered outside. Oh, the townsfolk thought he was crazy, but then, they questioned his sanity on a daily basis, anyway.
With the opening of his chocolate shop, however, Willy stumbled headlong into a new series of obstacles: health concerns. Bare skin handling food would not earn favor with the critics, and so Willy was forced to open himself to a part of the world he had intended to separate himself from forever: latex gloves.
The first week, his hands were stiff and his fingers were numb. He had difficulty holding on to things. Gradually, he regained the use of his hands, and slowly grew accustomed to the gloves.
As his business grew, so did his taste in fashion. His clothing changed from business suits to brightly colored jackets with the most fascinating designs, he developed a fondness for top hats, and he began to experiment with matching the color of his gloves to his clothing. (He was especially fond of red and purple.) Slowly, what was once something to be hated and avoided became an extension of himself.
He never expected to have so much in common with his father.