Momma said

Maybe I think too much about this stuff. Maybe it’s because people are constantly asking me if I’m a hipster. As a matter of fact, now that I’m back in my hometown for the first time in four years, all I seem to hear is, “Oh snap, Micky, your hair got loooong!” It’s a bit obnoxious.

I never hear, “Wow, Micky, you look so much more mature, or handsome.” Or, “How have you been?” Or, “Howsabout a high five?” It’s always some ill-thought-out, long hair, hippie/hipster comment. It’s enough to make any young man wish he had just done what his parents always secretly hoped and joined the Marines.

No one asks a returning Marine about HIS hair. Double standard much?

People seem so worried about how I’ve chosen to identify myself. They seem so concerned about how I’ve chosen to live my life. These phenomenons have occurred to such a preposterous degree recently and these people are so preoccupied with finding an answer to this burning question that they’re willing to make rash and broad generalizations about my lifestyle choices based simply on a few appearance changes.

And, obviously, it’s not just me. This seems a popular trend among returning college students. Those of you lucky enough to stay on campus (the only ones likely to be reading the Indiana Daily Student) have been spared this atrocity, though you probably know what I’m talking about.

So you got a few piercings, or a provocative tattoo, or maybe your hair is a different color. You’re young. You’re in college. You got really drunk and spent too much time on YouTube and now you’ve attempted to give yourself dreadlocks. So what? It shouldn’t matter.

You can’t let the man get you down. To quote someone gangster, “Haters gonna hate.”

The judgers probably, deep down, understand. They probably were once young too, and got something pierced that they wish they hadn’t. (That’s how your Uncle Jon actually got that eyebrow scar; it wasn’t a knife fight against a terrorist Russian bear.)

So, let ‘em talk. Let ‘em spit their hate. Let ‘em dump the salt out of their salt shakers and fill ‘em right back up with hate that they may sprinkle their hate. It’s not your problem. They’re just insecure.

Everything your mother told you about the kids who made fun of you in high school is true. Sure, they might look like they have it all together and in line. But trust me, that 401K and job security don’t make them feel cool inside. They secretly wish they could ink it up or throw a little metal in their face or stop combing their hair. Jealousy, homie.

At least that’s what I’m gonna keep telling myself.

Thank you and goodnight.

­— mileonar@indiana.edu