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A waxed mustache. Dark rimmed glasses. A plaid button down. A bowtie. Jeans with the bottoms rolled up. He mutters something about PBR. Who is this?

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HIPSTER THINGS

This, my friends, is the hipster. There have been reports that they are a dying breed. But to quote Severus Snape, “My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it.” Articles as early as 2014 clamored and claimed that the hipster is dead, but I would argue that their death was about as real as Tom Sawyer’s.

As a group they are almost immediately identifiable, though (like any large collective) they have different hobbies. Some like to ironically shop at Goodwill. Others will tell you about their artisanal breads, and how gluten is the worst. You begin to wonder if they eat anything at all, for the hipster is often extremely thin.

Your hipster friend, Stan, appears so thin, in fact, that you might offer to take him out for a meal. He will then insist that the restaurant serves only locally-sourced, organic produce.

“Stop being a hipster,” you snap.

Stan looks appalled, as if you just said something pro-oil. “He normally doesn’t mind swearing,” you think. But you just did something terrible. You just broke the number one rule of hanging out with hipsters: you called a hipster a hipster.

Hipsters hate labels. They don’t like being told by Mr. Mainstream that they’re the hipster-est of all the hipsters in the hipster-dom.

When this happens, they’ll tell you that you are mistaken. They’ll cite some article or something that they read on a blog once or whatever.

Probably this one: http://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2014/jun/22/end-of-the-hipster-flat-caps-and-beards

Or maybe this one: http://mashable.com/2015/06/09/post-hipster-yuccie/#aH7q_lUcxOqa

They may say that hipster as a term is dead.

Don’t be lied to, don’t be fooled. Hipsters are now trying to squirm out of the box they themselves created. You’ve been laying on your laurels, my hipster friends. You’re now part of the mainstream—the ultimate irony—you’ve become what you hate. All your excruciating months of growing the perfect homeless beard has now backfired.

Congratulations, you’re this decade’s mullet.

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