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roll with the hipster crowd, we would suggest you cease and desist with the customization process. Keep the bill straight and set your cap at a jaunty angle and you’ll avoid Bro Gap and plummet right into Hipster Douche Cavern.
     

BRAS
     

    Hipster girls hate wearing them and hipster boys hate when girls wear them. When you’re so emaciated that your chest resembles that of a virginal ten-year-old, a bra is just one more piece of expensive fabric that you have to wash and one more article of clothing a hipster dude has to peel off when you’re both drunk and skinny-dipping in your heiress BFF’s rooftop pool.
     

CONVERSE
     

    Now, we can already hear the protestations, the torches and pitchforks and cries that we’ve got it wrong. After all, Converse are one of the most cited hallmarks of the indie set. But after months of extensive immersion research, we are forced to conclude that authentic, through-and-through hipsters hate the ol’ All Stars. In major urban areas that double as hipster enclaves, Chucks can now be seen gracing the feet of greasy teenagers, plump, bespectacled 30-year-old women and middle-aged dudes riding the subway to Queens. Hipsters know no loyalty—though Converse have long been beloved by the clique, the trendsetters barely thought twice about kicking their beat-up kicks to the curb the second they noticed white stars gracing the feet of the common man.
     
    Now, they’ve traded up to equally ratty Keds and Vans (each pair of which, incidentally, they’ve also “totally had since, like, high school”). To be sure, the childlike footwear will soon spread like wildfire among everyday losers, hot on Chuck Taylors’ holey heels, and hipsters will co-opt their next shoe du jour—work boots, maybe, or hip-hop kids’ puffy white sneakers. Or mayhaps the hepcats will circle back to the tan Skechers they wore in seventh-grade—exact replicas of the skater shoes that were stolen from the locker room during gym class. Oh shit, Skechers with JNCOs, baby Ts and Y-necklaces as the next It outfit—just call us Nostradamus.
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    GROOMING
     
 
    [CASE STUDY]
     
    Jaime K. looks like your average 25-year-old hipster girl: tangled hair, sleepy eyes, pale skin, rumpled clothing. She rarely wears makeup or perfume, and though she showers on a regular basis, she only washes her long, curly hair every week or so. However, Jaime did not always comport herself as such. Jaime attended school in the Midwest, where she would straighten her hair daily and apply bright polish to her shapely nails—in fact, she rarely went out of the house sans a coat of foundation and full face of makeup. She and her friends would frequent local sports bars, where bros would approach her, drawn to her glossy locks and lips. However, Jaime was never attracted to men of this nature, and they were often repelled by her obscure taste in literature and strong opinions about green living. Once, a more freewheeling friend took her to a bar in one of the city’s rare pockets of hipsterdom, but the hipster boys there gave her nary a glance, put off by her blush-tinted cheeks and sparkly clutch purse.
     
     
     
    Upon moving to Bushwick (the only neighborhood she could afford thanks to her job doing marketing for an Internet start-up), Jaime grew tired of the daily preparations of a “proper lady,” which began to feel akin to a virgin cleansing and anointing herself in anticipation of a sacrifice. She retired her straightener, letting her hair return to its natural state, and applied a swipe less makeup every day. A very curious thing happened: Hipster boys began to give her sly glances as she scribbled poetry in her Moleskine at the local coffee shop, and even jangled up to her at her friends’ loft parties. Now, Brooklyn locals consider Jaime “sexy.” Why? Because she always appears to have just:
     
     
    a) come home from a trip abroad where acid was in high supply;
     
     
    b) finished an artistic endeavor