Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. At times I may wear a bowler hat and drape my fingers with an assortment of cross jewellery. I may sit a guitar in the corner of my room and casually drop in that time I went to see The Black Keys. I may also cut out fashion spreads from Marie Claire and have Polaroids randomly positioned on my off-white walls. But all is not what it seems in my sleepy South London abode. You see, when it comes to living life as a London hipster, I'm simply a builder's tea in a niche non-chain coffee shop.
I reside in the quaint town of East Dulwich, filled with Saturday street markets and a tremendous amount of pushchairs to shuffle past on the way to Iceland. The hipster breed is a rareity amongst my broody neighbours. To truly become edgy, one must don double denim and head East of the river, Shoreditch be calling.
*Warning, hipster stereotyping will now take place*
For those who aren't hipster-literate, a London hipster is particularly easy to spot. Think an explosion of all the trends you thought you'd left behind in the 90s and you're almost there. Non-prescription glasses for that extra summin' summin'. Beanie hats even in warm weather (teamed with sunglasses for that extra ironic charm). Exuberant moustaches, skinny jeans and a fondness for never wearing socks - it's simply the hipster way.
As a tassel-loving female with a great fondness for dip-dyed tresses, I imagined the hipster way of life would be the beginning of something beautiful in the big smoke. I enjoy nothing more than wearing odd pairs of earrings. I like the novelty of drinking out of jam jars. But when my skinny jeans met the drainpipes of the edgy elite, it became all too apparent that being a hipster is just a bit...naff.
My Saturdays are enjoyably spent nursing a hangover in bed until the early afternoon. Endless amounts of tea and a Come Dine With Me marathon, sometimes I'll treat myself to a walk to the shops for bread. If I had to fit in 'sit outside a Shoreditch coffee shop with my similarly clad T4 presenter types' I'd really, really struggle.
To be a hipster, one must socialise in all the places your mother probably warned you about. If it looks and smells like a working men's club, then it's probably niche enough to work. As a rule of thumb, you'll generally order G&Ts and roll your own cigarettes; have a few tattoos (quotes from literature, maybe a moustache on your index finger) and when Jay-Z comes on, you're edgy enough to rap along without your peers thinking you actually like the music. Hipster irony at it's best.
Thanks to mainstream folk like myself wearing bowler hats and Star Wars t-shirts, London hipsters are having to push the 90s fashion boundaries further and further. Floral dungarees and crop tops, soon Rockports will be making an unwelcome comeback.
Turns out, I'm more fipster than hipster (fake hipster, geddit?) Whilst I may enjoy rolling up the bottoms of my jeans and wearing oversized jumpers - preferably with animals on the front - the Twilight Saga displayed on my bookcase and my general love of YouTube dance tutorials means that I'm as edgy as the London bubble I live in. Whilst my leaning guitar may lead you to believe I enjoy sitting in parks drinking Red Stripe and playing a few acoustic numbers, it has been leaning for one too many months now, becoming more out of tune as each unfulfilled day passes by. The magazine cut outs set to captivate and inspire my outfits of the day? They're just pictures of Taylor Swift, my country hero.
Hipsters, you can drink your flat whites and be merry; I'm off to get a cup of tea and watch The Office.
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