An open letter to bearded hipsters (Oh My)
May 17, 2014 16 Comments
OK, Guys, if you’re in Norway, Minnesota, North Dakota, Wisconsin, Iowa, or other places where it gets completely ridiculously cold, and it snows so much that one really can justify a snow machine, it’s a day to kick back and have some lutefisk and drink some aquavit. Yep, it 17 May again, or Norwegian Constitution day. I don’t know many of us Scandis that think we need more excuse to party than that it’s a day that ends in -day, but we got one today. I wrote about it last year so if you want to know more, go here. In any case, ‘
GOD SYTTENDE MAI!!
Then there is this broad. She may be the funniest (and one of the most truthful) writers I have ever read. Not many people can write a post that I can hardly read because of the tears rolling down my face while I’m rolling on the floor. My God, she’s good. Read it follow the link, read the post that follows as well, it connects. Hell , spend the day, it goes good with Aquavit. And yes, I need to get a laptop, My desktop doesn’t like rolling around on the floor, and it doesn’t laugh worth a crap, either. Language warning: She writes like real Americans talk. If you’re easily offended, you’re in the wrong place here, and on Nicki’s site as well. You can whine in comments if you wish.
Dear Bearded Hipsters,
YOU GUYS ARE RUINING MY BEARD FETISH. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved a man with a beard. To me, they meant strength, power, MANLINESS. Someone who could protect me. Unfortunately, you guys have turned it into a fashion statement. The beard has turned into the padded bra of masculinity. Sure it looks sexy, but whatcha got under there? There’s a whole generation running around looking like lumberjacks, and most of you can’t change a fucking tire.
Look, I get it. I really do. I understand the motivation behind your beardedness. In fact, I even pity you. Thousands of years of evolution priming you guys to kill stuff, and chase stuff, and fuck stuff….and now what? You’re stuck at a desk all day. No battles to fight. No wars to wage. So you assert your masculinity the only way you know how. You brew beer. You grow some hair on your face. I’ve seen you, hipsters, sitting in downtown eateries, with your rock chick girlfriends, dipping your truffle fries, trying not to get the aioli in your mustache. I’ve seen the quiet desperation in your eyes. I know you’re screaming into the void.
But I still hate you for it. You’re confusing me. It’s now on me to suss out who is the real man and who is the poseur. Sadly, I fear most of you are the latter. Before this explosion of whiskers on trendy men everywhere, if I saw a bearded man it was safe to assume certain things about him. Like, he probably owned a hammer. Or washed his hair with a bar of Irish Spring. His beard was probably scented with motor oil and probably had remnants of last night’s chili in it.