The other day after sucking down our weight in beermosas and bubbly at brunch, my best friend and I were perusing some shops. She was weighing the pros and cons of Ubering back to the city with a $99 giant mirror while I tried to determine whether or not I really should spend a couple of Benjamins on a turquoise blue, fully functional typewriter.
“Dude, I’ve always wanted one of these,” I said out loud, albeit mostly to myself.
And she whipped around, after deeming the mirror too heavy, and without missing a beat replied with a sort of snarky, “Well of course you have, you fucking hipster.”
A hipster? Seriously? I took a quick glance in the mirror at my half-tucked flannel, Ray-Ban glasses (they’re actually prescription glasses, not fake ones from Warby Parker, calm down), and Neff hat-wearing self in disbelief. She couldn’t be right.
Later that night, her Ella Moss loving voice popped back into my head: “You hipster.” So even though I was comfortably sitting at home with a pint of Huckleberry IPA freshly poured from one of the three growlers in my fridge, half listening as Short Term 12 played in the background while I worked on editing a piece involving hooking up with various members of “the band,” I had to wonder:
Was she right? Am I hipster?
I quickly Googled “hipster” and skimmed the Urban Dictionary definition of said subculture. Apparently they have an affinity for tight fitting jeans (these JBrands would agree), edgy fashions and aesthetic choices that typically wouldn’t be accepted in mainstream society (maybe there’s a hot pink unicorn tattoo on my forearm, maybe there isn’t), have an appreciation for progressive politics (#FreeTheNipple), and are often credited with trends or social change. Well, I’m not going to say I knew about The Decemberists or Bon Iver before everybody else liked them… wait I’ll absolutely say that.
Maybe she was right. Maybe the times I went out with her in combat boots and talked on and on about this new brother/sister duo I found on YouTube was pointing me in that direction. Sure, I got my latest tattoos on my wrists in typewriter font, but that’s because I was officially a paid writer on that day, and also the Ts looked cool – it doesn’t make me a hipster, right? I bought her Taylor Swift tickets for god’s sake; no hipster would do that.
I scratched my “styled to look messy” ombré hair and pushed my gold iPhone sporting an ironic Kanye case to the side. I mean, my fall wardrobe is compiled of nothing but oversized sweaters and colored tights, but that’s because I look cute AF and am warm. Sure, I prefer a local cold brew to Starbucks, but that’s because it’s better and Atticus (the barista) knows me by name. We talk about how under appreciated Colin Meloy’s novel was and how we can’t wait for Serial Season Two to come out on iTunes; Atticus is my boy.
So, I’m a hipster. And you know what? I don’t care.
I closed my Macbook with a certain amount of force and immediately grabbed my phone again to text my friend.
“I’ve decided to embrace my hipsterdom.”
I like being a hipster. So what if I prefer whiskey to sparkling water, curling up to read Bukowski in favor of watching The Bachelor, or have half-sleeve tattoos to a rolled up JCrew sleeve? I think I’m a pretty cool hipster, and I don’t really care what you have to say about it. My apartment has exposed concrete and copper pipes, and I’d be lying if that wasn’t part of what convinced me to sign the lease. I decorate with weird vintage pieces and locally made art and have gone out more than once in purple lipstick; I really dig that about myself.
So you can keep your country music, your Chipotle obsession, and your well vodka-sodas. If liking local distilleries and cantinas over those of “the man,” listening to The Civil Wars on repeat, and appreciating triple IPA on a Tuesday afternoon is wrong, then I don’t want to be right. .
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