I am a hipster!
I cut my hair into a blunt shoulder length bob in 1991, slapped a bottle of red hair dye on the boring brown hair generated from my DNA pool and fell into a love affair with leggings and flannel shirts. I’ve never let go of Doc Martens and I have a vintage pair of Ox Blood Timberland boots. My jewelry has always been simple – a pair of silver hoops and some sort of a pagan themed charm on a leather string adorns my neck.
I dance to the beat of my own drum. I worship whatever god or goddess suits my fancy at the moment. I don’t align myself with groups or teams. The people in my life are a minimal number of kindred spirits. I hate bars. I don’t follow trends. I read books. I drink rum with ice cubes and Coca Cola. I grow house plants and sunflowers. I’ll rock out to Guns N’ Roses or croon along with Billy Joel. I won’t be pigeonholed. I won’t be classified. I am Kat – hear me roar.
“O M G you are so hipster!” my 3 year old’s preschool teacher declared.
“Hipster!” You know — artsy, creative, upbeat, the thick plastic glasses, the Doc Martens. I love it! You are so cute!”
I blinked as my mind spiraled into a maelstrom of confusion. What was this freshly post-teen young adult spewing forth at me?
“I don’t know what this means. I need thick glasses to see,” I stammered, flicking the chin length bangs back away from my face.
“It’s okay! It’s cool – you are awesome! Hipsters are COOL!”
I ran home, fired up the laptop and got right on my Google Horse.
“Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20s and 30s that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.” (Wiki)
Mother of God.
They turned me into a movement!
They made the kids who embraced uncool into cool.
This couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t continue to be ME, the nonconformist, without being a conformist.
I erred on the side of logic. I consulted my 13 year old son.
“Am I a hipster!?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Did you do things before they were cool?’
“I don’t know – Mom things! Your glasses don’t count, if that’s what you think. Real hipster glasses don’t have lenses.”
Oh blessed Fruit of my Loins. I knew I could count on you.
“Are you sure?”
“Mom, who the hell told you that you’re a hipster? Why, Mom, why, would you let a member of your peer group inhibit your self esteem and sense of self love? Why would you let them categorize you, Mom? How did this happen? Never have unprotected sex, Mom, and pot isn’t grown in the ground anymore. It’s grown in vats of chemical-laced water and will make your testicles shrink because it’s not natural!”
“Don’t use swear words, and I wasn’t kidding about testicle shrinking pot!”
I came to the conclusion that yes, indeed, a movement had gone forth emulating my freethinking, comfort dressed, groovy lifestyle. The hipsters can keep being hipsters, which essentially is being me, until they move onto the cool kids being cool again.
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.