Of late I have been experiencing a hipster revival phase. This comes partly as a reaction to the sea of khaki in which I work and partly as a manifestation of my second adolescence angst recently. Thus, some observations on the particular sartorial sense of that elusive species, the hipster:
The hipster is not made for summer. The hipster’s style is mainly composed of layering, and 80 degrees is too hot for a cardigan. This will not, however, deter a true hipster.
Hipsters are vision-impared. Astigmatism, I assume, has a curiously high incidence rate in hipsters. And as we all know, the bigger the glasses, the better to see Freaks and Geeks reruns with. If one has 20/20, one must hide it (and their shame) behind outsized frames.
Hipster fashion is essentially about reappropriating things… ironically. The key to all the hipster does is ironic. Today, for instance, my boss dubbed my outfit “preppy,” and I corrected that it was “ironic, re-appropriated hipster preppy.” The hipster may wear a button down shirt, cardigan, and boat shoes, but in doing so is wordlessly mocking the sort of person who deigns to wear a button down shirt, cardigan, or boat shoes.
The hipster probably hated high school, but loves dressing like they are still there. Varsity motifs are a must, again ironically, because the only sport the hipster could ever master was Wii bowling.
Hipster hairstyling, I have also learned, cannot be understood or imitated by any average stylist in residence at your local SuperCuts, but is incredibly easy. Though the myriad bottle-blonds in aprons at local salons discourage it, hipster hair is all about: BANGS. For boys, for girls, no matter, all that matters is bangs. Hipsters are notoriously anti-forehead. All you should be able to see on a hipster’s face are bangs, glasses, and a smirk.
For girls, hipster fashion essentially boils down to looking like the movie trope of the Girl With Ponytail and Glasses, Pre-Makeover. Basically, this girl would be universally attractive if only she would unloose her ponytail and shed her spectacles (see: Laney Boggs, She’s All That). Until then, though, she remains a diamond in the rough only fully appreciated by her male (or female, whatevs) counterpart.
Hipsters do not eat, like gremlins. If they ate, how could they fit into women’s denim legging-style skinny jeans (both genders)? Between the skinny jeans and hunched shoulders, hipsters intentionally look as insubstantial as the last leaf on a dying tree in a thunderstorm.
Finally, any hipster worth their Toms has already fully shunned these observations at this point in the post, because I clearly cannot understand the distinct layers of irony and uniqueness that make their style transcend blanket terms such as “hipster.” If you have to ask, you’ll never know.