When you straddle the lines of hipsterdom (hispterhood?), you also straddle that fine line between liking being a hipster…and being slightly ashamed of your hipster tendencies.
(As I sip my PBR.)
(In my cardigan and Chucks and skinny jeans.)
(While looking at typography.)
(And coveting a fixed-gear bike. In baby blue.)
(And reading Pitchfork.)
(On Google Chrome.)
When I bought my vintage 1950s frames in 2009, in my mind I was ahead of the curve. Yes, yes, I get how the time-space continuum works and that since my glasses were manufactured in the ’50s, I am not really ahead of any curves, but instead, about six decades…late. But, you see, in my little neck of the woods, in suburban Toronto, nobody was wearing them. Original, I was. And I liked it. Even if I got some comments on my site that said things like, “Your glasses are horrible.” Yeah, that stung. A bit. Until I remembered that my glasses were freakin’ awesome. And so was I. So that settled that. And my lovely glasses served me very well.
Until.
Glasses like mine started popping up a little too often for my taste.
And my inner hipster yelled RUN!
And once I quieted those annoying voices, I realized that it was time for something new. I have grown so much over the last two years and I decided that maybe it was time for something smaller, something different, something a little less Miss Blankenship (may she rest in peace) and little more Harry Crane.
Oh MAD MEN HOW I MISS YOU PLEASE COME BACK TO ME.
The difference is subtle, I realize.
But it’s enough to calm the voices.
I am just a wee bit in love with them.
And by wee, I really mean, OMG OVER THE TOP I WANNA MAKE OUT WITH THEM.
And I know my Bubbie would be too.
What a hipster she was…
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