Still not hip
I attended my high school class reunion this past weekend, and as I reentered the shifting sands of adolescent memory, I confirmed I am still not, never was, and never will be “hip.”
The concept of hipness is one of those things you cannot define, but you always recognize. Like great wine or the BeeGees.
So who is hip? This is a dangerous game, but here are my nominations:
The Rolling Stones are hip. Frank Sinatra is hip. So are Bonnie Raitt, Delbert McClinton, and George Jones. Bob Dylan is, though sometimes he comes dangerously close to trying too hard to be “Dylan.”
That’s a factor. Anyone who tries to be hip is not hip. People who are truly hip are unaware of their own hipness.
Hair, fashion or education doesn’t guarantee hipness. It can’t be learned, it can’t be taught (though my older sisters tried). It isn’t inherited, although I am convinced it is something you are born with. Like knowing how to accessorize an outfit, or where to place the divan. Or knowing when to use the word “divan.”
Nor is hipness about appearance.
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