Let’s just jump right to it, shall we? Hipsters. I kind of love them.
I know. We’re not supposed to do that. They represent all that is wrong and soft with America. And to a degree, I can agree with that. In fact, I often wonder what would happen if a hipster of today came face to face with his or her great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent, who struggled against war and famine and an otherwise brutal existence, hoping to maintain their lineage before dying from a disease we cured decades ago (and who was also probably very short and didn’t smell all that nice). Who would be more disappointed?
But at the same time, I can’t get enough of hipsters. Their blasé attitude. The clothes, the tattoos, the incredible way they consume culture. I love it all.
Let’s back up a bit. Last summer, I moved from Manhattan to Williamsburg, Brooklyn – what is considered the epicenter of hipsterdom. I got a lot of jokes about it, because, well, people love making jokes about hipsters. But while I laughed, I was excited as well. Because I definitely have my hipster tendencies. I have bangs. I have one tattoo and am seriously considering more. I ride a no-gear bike, wear vintage clothes, and listen to obscure music. To me, moving to Williamsburg was moving to a place where I would fit in more than anywhere else.