Two Steps Forward . . .

I apologize for my prolonged absence, dear readers. I have had my hipster worldview shaken recently, primarily due to the foul-mouthed slanders of my erstwhile best friend, John. I had alluded to my new outlook on life both verbally and over email, but breakfast yesterday morning was the first time I had seen him since my transformation. His response was devastating.

"A gross caricature of a hipster."
"If they let you hang out with them, it will be because they're making fun of you."
"They're all douchebags anyway; why would you want to be like them?"

The worst of it was the appearance of complete and utter sincerity. It was as if he were genuinely worried that I--I!--would be viciously mocked by those whom I most admire. Needless to say, I left at once, leaving my coffee undrunk and Menthol cigarette (a new habit I've acquired at dear Edward's suggestion) unsmoked. The subway ride home was torturous, as I became convinced that everyone was snickering at me. Looking in the window of the subway car for reassurance, I saw not the dashing hipster who had left that morning, but an overweight buffoon pathetically trying too hard. Unable to look at myself any further, I sat down, removed my keffiah from my neck and laid it modestly over my suddenly too-tight jeans, and crossed my arms protectively over my chest, but still, I could not shake the silent judgment of my fellow commuters. Within seconds of arriving at home, I found myself in front of the mirror, razor in my trembling hand, ready to remove my greatest ambition: the start of my handlebar mustache.

No sooner had I laid blade to flesh than the phone rang. Reluctantly, I set down the razor and answered. It was John, imploring me not to hang up. Silently, I listened as he apologized and explained that I had actually looked amazing and that his actions were prompted solely by jealousy and fear of losing me as a best friend.

The instant he said those words, I realized just how gullible I had been to believe him in the first place. Of course I looked smashing! Would Saint Edward have steered me wrong? Suddenly I could no longer fathom even thinking about shaving off my dear, fledgling handlebar, and I also, as you will no doubt surmise, grew quite angry at John for having provoked such a crisis in me. As I was about to hang up on him (without saying anything, naturally) he piqued my interest by contritely offering a few tips to aid me in my quest:

1. Not to call myself a hipster. He said while he knows it's confusing, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters; they call others hipsters, usually as an insult. This makes a certain amount of sense to me, as it would explain the dearth of official "hipster" blogs, as well as the "Die Hipster Scum" t-shirt that Dear Edward picked out for me. In terms of my continued blogging, however, this raises some troubling questions, as the title of my blog is, after all, "Confessions of a Self-Identified Hipster." If, as John posits, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters, my blog title is essentially an advertisement to the fact that I am not a hipster. What a conundrum! Obviously, this question will not be answered in a day, and I welcome any suggestions from you, my loyal audience.

2. Wear clothes more suited to my scale, and the weather. Obviously, he was mistaken on the first front; Edward is a saint, and I trust his clothing choices implicitly. Not to mention, I have a strong feeling that my new diet of Menthols and coffee will have a staggering impact on my girth. As for the second, however, he is quite right: yesterday was too chilly to be walking about in only jeans, a t-shirt, and a keffiah. This, however, raises yet another urgent question: what do hipsters wear when it's cold?

3. Let the hipsters come to me. He warned me against seeming too eager, which, as you astute readers no doubt recall, is a lesson I have already learned. Still, it was sweet of him to remind me.

I have not yet decided whether to forgive John or not. He is a dear friend, but this is not the first time he has let his jealousy get the better of him, and while I am hardly a shrinking violet, a man has his limits. On the other hand, I can't really blame him for being jealous. I do cut a rather striking figure in my get-up, and after all, even I was jealous of the first hipsters I had occasion to meet.

As to being afraid of losing me to my fellow hipsters, frankly, he ought to be concerned. I'm sure those worthies show nothing but the tenderest compassion for their fellow hipsters, unlike John, who can't seem to help himself from lashing out at me. Once I have joined their ranks, I'll probably be too busy attending independent music concerts and drinking "PBR" to hang out with the likes of him. But still, he is rather sweet . . . When he's not denigrating all that I hold dear, that is.

At times, I feel like I am in an abusive relationship.

I think I shall table the John decision until further notice, leaving me with one question answered, but several more sprung up in its place.

Unresolved questions:

1. God.
2. Star Wars.
3. Tight-fitting pants.
4. The title of my blog.
5. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
6. John.

Resolved Questions.
1. Blogs. All credit to John for this one. They do blog; they simply do not call themselves hipsters.