Everybody needs one, a hipster to call their own. Mine will be a man named Bill or Teddy or maybe Steve. He won’t be a big man, and even though he used to be a bit embarrassed by his slender frame, he will have embraced it now. He’ll wear the kind of skinny jeans that taper so close to his ankles that you wonder how he could have possibly pulled them over his feet in the morning. Did he have help, an assistant to tug on his toes while he pulled on the pants? Sometimes I’ll want to ask, but it will seem like too personal a question.
He’ll wear suspenders of course. They’ll be thin and black with little leather hooks that attach to special buttons that he’s sewn into his pants. Or, I assume he’s sewn them in. Maybe he only buys special pants made to be worn with suspenders. I don’t know. But he wouldn’t seem the same without them.
He won’t wear glasses, but I’m pretty sure that he’ll wish he could. They’d have thick, black frames, the glasses he imagines he’d have, kind of like the ones you get at 3D movies. Sometimes he’ll steel those when he leaves the theater. He’ll slip them into his shirt pocket and when he gets home he’ll pop the lenses out and wear them around, admiring himself in the mirror while he eats cereal.
I don’t have time to tell you about his tattoos. There are too many and they’re far too intricate to describe in detail, but I’ll tell you this: they’re beautiful, delicate and colorful. You could spend hours looking at them. Maybe some day you will.