Posts from January, 2011
Redheads are natural hipsters because they’re just outside the realm of everybody else. They have freckles and anywhere from fluffy bright orange to subtle and silky strawberry hair. The men wear their whiskers proudly, while the women have blue eyes and wear red lipstick. They’re never without sunscreen and a bandanna.
2. The Unwashed
Bed heads, traditionally. Those who believe the showered look is for pussies and suits. Covered in old-school tattoos of seascapes dotted with stars, these creatures listen to their ipods at volumes audible to all around them. Your commuting noise preferences are not only irrelevant, but unrefined. Their music is serious music.
3. The Kate Spades
These hipsters have done some breeding with The Unwashed, but their daddies’ wallets allow more judicious flirtations with polite society, so instead of vintage duds, they rock the bright stripes and polka dots of Kate Spade. Throw on a pair of oversize men’s frames (lenses removed, of course) and the Kate Spade is ready to pose for photos. It’s so ironic to look good.
The cycling portion of the hipster population believes it is his utmost responsibility to turn the world over from a driving one, even a walking one, to a biking one. His matchstick jeans with improbably tight ankles belie his impending aggravation that all the spots at the bike rack are taken. “When will this city realize that its cycling citizens are important???” he moans.
5. The Eater
Or, more realistically, the not-eater. She is so particular about “what [she] put[s] into [her] body” that almost nothing makes the cut. That’s okay, she says, her dwindling weight reminds her of the suffering of the third world. However, when face to face with “the best vegan place in town,” her eyes grow big, her wayfarers come off, and she consumes a fifth of the world’s food on the suffering’s behalf. And then posts about it on Tumblr.
6. The Quiet
You may not think you’re a hipster. In fact, you actively don’t think you’re a hipster. But you like to DIY, you read the New Yorker on the train, and you care too much about an infinite number of things. You devour the entire internet daily. You’re probably freelancing. And you’re fucking wonderful.
I think you have to wish yourself well before you can wish the world well with any sincerity.
There’s something wrong with the dress/ shoes/ pose/ photographer that can make a model’s legs look chunky.
*Yes, even though the prickometer shatters every time someone utters that phrase, I need it.
Because the problem, apparently, is my notes to self. I only discovered that this ranks as a problem today, when a scowling grimacey thing of a woman glared at me as I passed her and her Bugaboo-ensconced offspring on the sidewalk. I was dashing back from CVS [Park Slope lunch scene]. (All the cool self-employers hit it up on the regs. What, whaaat?) She was moving determinedly toward a playdate. Maybe one with afternoon mimosas. And I was busy in my head trying to figure out what to do about [boring boring boring], when the solution washed over me, which caused me to cease just thinking about it and begin making the actual shapes for the words newly at the top of my mind.
To clarify, no sounds emerged from my face; word shapes just appeared on my lips. But as I looked up at the frosty never-had-a-good-thought-in-her-life bitch across from me, she moved to protect her young like an insecure animal.
So now I’m just wondering how strange this actually is. This can’t merit crazy-lady-mumbling-on-the-street avoidance. I mean, I know today isn’t my best hair day, but come on.