Fashion notes: Separating the hip from the hipsters

I’d forgotten about hipsters, perhaps lost in the midst of trying to pull off blingy for the Middle East. Then I remembered my old East London self and had a chuckle.

I’d forgotten about hipsters, perhaps lost somewhere in the midst of trying to pull off blingy and rich for the Middle East. And then I remembered my old East London self and had a bit of chuckle – all decked out in vintage garb, talking shop with artists in warehouses, thinking that we were above such sartorial subcultures. Oh how we thought we mattered.

I hadn’t seen an ironic Amish beard for a while, what with all the bling-a-ding-ding culture around here, until I found myself at a farmers’ market in Cape Town. So this is where they’re all hiding – a pond chocked full of achingly cool Abraham Lincoln lookalikes passing on the caffeine and carbohydrates, and looking instead to buy some (very sustainable) vegetables.

And then I had a second little inward chuckle. I’d thought hipsters died a while back – perhaps, somewhat narcissistically, when I left Hackney and my liquorice roll-ups (they didn’t translate) and Betty Page fringe (it was too hot for that) behind me.

I hadn’t seen a man as thin as the women he dates in a while, so accustomed I’ve become to peacockdom in the Gulf – all plunging necklines opened to reveal chest hair and pectoral muscles (or lack thereof). Three words, chaps: modesty preservation, please.

Suddenly, all my shiny Middle Eastern stuff looked a bit naff. My designer handbag was so out of context it may as well have been auditioning for Pop Idol. Surrounded by all the Leonard Cohen types that I used to effortlessly mingle with, it was as if I'd missed the lesson that taught me to walk with confidence and ease – to blend in; to look cool.

For a fleeting moment, I crumbled, before remembering I’m now in my 30s and I don’t care what others think anymore. Perhaps my overzealous accessorising was being totally ironic. Or so I kept muttering.

I’ll spare you the hipster mocking content, however. Like the plague itself, hipster bashing sweeps through the vulnerable like smallpox. Surely we shouldn’t be scrutinising overused stereotypes like a national sport, as grey hairs creep farther and farther along our hairlines.

We simply need to learn how to look at things with fresh eyes. Being at the wrong end of “cool”, it’s a subject that most of us choose not to mention – the silence, perhaps, proving those times are now well out of reach, with a grim realisation that the things we used to wear without a second thought suddenly seem, for want of a kinder word, ­inappropriate.

So moustaches, monocles and Indian headdresses are out. But do we really want to go there ­anyway? Probably not. The several stages of self-scrutiny that must be involved sound exhausting. There’s a reason that intelligent fashion design has succeeded to the extent that it has. For it encourages the wearer to adapt to its environment.

That’s not to say we don’t have to try anymore. What was once a rich terrain for experimentation shouldn’t be mired in laziness and dependence on the mainstream. We need a model of resistance, to find some sort of a balance; a place we’re comfortable in, working out the tough trick of being on-trend without being trendy, as such. Perhaps when you start questioning yourself or others too much, it’s your subconscious throwing you a bone.

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