There are puh-lenty of new things you are going to need to navigate when you are suddenly single in your 40s. You’ve probably already figured out social media, and if you are anything like me, made your fair share of rookie mistakes.,
Beyond all that, here’s another NEW THING in town that did not exist when you and I were last single. Listen in closely friends, and I’ll share what it is.
The hipster.
Enter the current era-dating scene and you WILL
(cue Attenborough accent) …. enter the natural habitat of the hipster.
I’m not sure how to describe this to those of my era, except to relate it back to what we know, which is to say that hipsters have:
- the hairstyle of Morrissey but lacking in the ability to feign anything but the poorest imitation of his mid 80s, brooding, veganaemic, yet absurdly compelling ‘Every day is like Sunday’ angst
- the skinny jean reminiscent in cut of that acid-wash Faberge era, but without an acid-wash element in sight and now either black or maroon or bottle green
- the geek glasses that we eschewed in the 80s in favour of contact lenses so that we had a better chance of seeing through pop-video style smoke machines and the haze of lets-smoke-indoors carcinogens that were entirely sanctioned in the era before we understood lung-cancer.
But they’re here, and since even the best of the true blue footy-dads are reinventing themselves as hipster, there’s a chance you might date one.
So here’s the 40s chick guide to understanding a hipster.
The outfit
The original hipster fashion vibe was the province of impoverished souls, suffering for their creativity, forced to scavenge cast offs from the local charity shops so that they could still authentically pursue their art and pay their rent.
These days, it’s a tad easier since the mainstream stores have cottoned on to this and will deck a guy out from the comfort of the high street on credit without them ever having to brave the recycled-dry-cleaner-hanger, mothball-fragranced, cash-only ambience of their local thrift shop.
And, slice off my shirtsleeves and call me vintage if the flannelette shirt of your south-eastern suburb boganista hasn’t reinvented itself as hipster chic. Lordy.
The drinks
Don’t EVER try to hit your hipster with a gutsy Barossa shiraz or a gooseberry-asparagus-nosed Marlbrough sauv blanc. No. You’ll only nail one of these bad boys down with something named to the effect of Fat Armadillo – “an organic pear and apple cider, blended with the purest water of a World Heritage Tasmanian river, where that organic fruit has awoken daily to the melodic cheep of grain-fed free-range hens basking in the unadulterated morning suns’ rays.”
If you must cheat, whack any old cocktail into a jam jar and you are gold. Hell, even the 80s, crème-de-menthe based Grasshopper will have them smacking their Dali-moustached lips in satisfaction by the mere fact you’ve served in this era’s go-to receptacle.
The hair
I had occasion recently, in support of my younger sister’s birthday, to venture into a veritable haven of hipsters. (if it hasn’t already been coined, mark me down as having nailed the collective noun for hipsters)
For a moment, and here’s a feeling that is entirely unique to me, I felt like I had become Katy Perry (about 18 months ago) in that no matter where I looked all I could see was Russell Brand.
It was made even more disorienting that I was there in month of Movember, so that I had no idea as to whether all that facial hair was intentional or was charity-inspired.
Either-way, it was everything I could do to prevent myself screaming for my hair-dresser to help me stage a hair-washing intervention to allow everyone in the bar to shed several kilos of hair-grease and to breathe freely at some point down the track.
My tips for those dating a hipster?
- Revel in being released from having any kind of tan in your skin. Let your pale, scone-dough skin rejoice in the knowledge that you will only ever venture out
- under cover of darkness or
- in opaque tights
- Indulge in your secret desire to date a red-head, knowing that the hipster culture has now deemed the ‘ranga the height of desirability
- Give yourself latitude on hair-washing, now that your hipster-beau is going to have either the follicular hygiene of Katy Perry’s ex, or an abundance of Trilby hats / trucker caps, any of which you can swipe to conceal your lack of hair-care-factor.
It’s all good. Give a hipster a whirl.
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