People keep calling me a hipster. I laugh, obviously, every time.
Not because it is funny, but because it proves everything.
Because apparently, that is exactly what a hipster would do.
“No, no, no,” I tell them, “I just appreciate craftsmanship.”
You hear that? Not denial. Denial dressed in artisan packaging,
wrapped carefully – in brown paper, naturally.
I do not wear a pocket watch for quirkiness.
I wear it because I appreciate history, sincerely.
Actually, give me a second. I need to check something.
Yes, the time, like it’s still 1894 somewhere.
I did not grow this beard because it was fashionable.
I grew it ironically, which somehow feels much worse now.
Irony has an annoying habit of overstaying its welcome.
Leave it long enough, and irony becomes sincerity with lighting—
better lighting, usually, and much more expensive beard oil.
I own vinyl, not because it sounds better, necessarily.
I just enjoy paying forty quid for technical difficulties.
There is something beautiful about music arriving with problems:
a little crackle, a little hiss, a little emotional damage.
I drink caramel skinny lattes because coffee needs accessories.
If coffee tastes exactly like coffee, then what was accomplished?
Why pay six pounds for something that knows its own identity?
I wear charity shop T-shirts and call them vintage, confidently.
No, Dave from Torquay donated that in 2018, mate.
I wear a flat cap because my forehead needed branding.
I write poetry about societal issues because subtlety failed.
I bought a notebook because the paper felt creative.
That sentence alone should disqualify me from several conversations.
I collected crystals, insisting they were decorative, nothing more.
Then Mercury went retrograde, and suddenly quartz looked suspicious.
I have tattoos, and every one carries meaning,
because apparently I cannot get ink without writing commentary.
Even my mistakes need footnotes, context, and emotional symbolism.
Somewhere between prayer beads and thrift shops, I started wondering.
Between beard wax and obscure Scandinavian bands nobody knows.
Thirty-seven monthly listeners, and yes, I checked yesterday.
Do not worry. You’ve probably never heard them.
That is important, apparently, because obscurity is credibility.
And somewhere beneath all this carefully curated nonsense, I realised:
this was not a phase, an aesthetic, or rebellion.
This was a lifestyle subscription, and I somehow renewed it.
I spent years trying desperately not to become labelled.
I avoided stereotypes so carefully that I became one.
I accidentally became the human equivalent of a farmers’ market:
organic, locally sourced, and somehow charging extra for conversation.
The worst part is not the beard, vinyl, or crystals.
It is what happens whenever somebody says it.
“Mate, you are such a hipster.”
And I still answer, “No, I am not.”
Which is exactly, exactly what a hipster would say.
God. I am a hipster.
There. I said it, and somehow the room survived.
I suppose confession is healthy, especially in vintage denim.
Maybe I should accept it, like an overpriced emotional diagnosis.
Maybe this is simply who I am now.
A man wearing irony until irony started wearing me.
And honestly, that is probably the most fashionable tragedy available.
Still, before we finish, I have one final request.
Can we have this confession somewhere with exposed brick?
Maybe near a plant, a record player, and gluten-free sourdough.
I have standards, after all.
