As so often, I find myself disturbed. You could even say that it is disturbing to be me.
I hear your concern: “What is it now, big nose?” I will tell you what it is, warty chin (ha, didn’t think I could see you through this interactive page, did you? Wonders of modern technology.)
I am disturbed by something known as the hipster phenomenon. Why should that bother me, a mature fellow beyond considerations of trend and fashion? Well, it is because, all inadvertently, I find myself being quite trendy.
You laugh, but consider the facts. Hipsters wear checked shirts and jeans, and they sport beards. Zoot alors, so do I!
True, there are differences between us. Their shirts tend to be thick and red with large checks. A kind of lumberjack schtick. I prefer a more sedate tartan and, certainly in summer (because I wear plaid shirts all-year round), the material of my shirts can be quite wispy. Must admit, though, come to think of it, some of my winter ones are right thick.
As indeed am I. However, I am not so dense as to wear one of those big, bushy beards that further distinguish the hipsters. Again, taken with the entire ensemble, it affords that lumberjack look.
However, many individuals sport the beard without the rugged, outdoor raiment, and these citizens look right Victorian. I take my woolly hat off to them all, and was only making a cheap joke with my “dense” reference above.
So, all accidentally, I tick some of the boxes for being a hipster. Perhaps that is why young persons titter at me so often in the street. They think I am an older person trying to keep up with fashion. And there is also the fact that many young persons disapprove of the hipsters, seeing them as shallow trendies who care about the kind of coffee beans they get in cafes.
It is a true fact that we have raised a generation of ultra-conservative titterers who, to my generation, resemble more our parents than rebellious youth. These are boring normals, who never do or say anything interesting, and dress accordingly.
It’s not as if I can confront them. The last time I did, many years ago, it turned out to be a reader who, on seeing my sonsie visage, remembered something amusing (unintentionally, no doubt) that I’d written. Though that’s unlikely to happen these days, I still wouldn’t risk an intervention and tend rather, upon being tittered at, to rush home and check my face, nose, hair and clothing.
I never get what it is. Surely, it can’t be the hipster thing? I’ve been dressing and bearding like this for years untold.
Ach, who gives a hoot anyway? I’m pleased that young men are going for the rugged, outdoors image – a lumberjack or rail worker of old is the ideal, I’m told – even if, like moi, they are in reality weedy fellows engaged in jobs at desks next to the radiator.
I wouldn’t know how to change the clothing in which I feel comfortable, as it’s what I wore in rougher climes, and is also how my heroes – Pa Walton, Jonathan Kent (Superman’s dad) – dressed. Clearly, a bit of father complex going on. Such is my lot: a simpleton with a complex.
