trend humper

Scotty Suicide: unhinged. 

Earlier today, as I was in the supermarket deciding whether the generic, bottom shelf, comes-in-a-plastic-bag version of Fruit Loops was just the right flavor of ironic, I spotted a scenester kid rightfully ignoring his yuppie parents who JUST DON'T GET IT, thoroughly wrapped up in switching from the new Bring Me The Horizon album to the new leaked single by Deathcore mavens, Oceano on his brand new iphone.  As he shuffled along—tight, nearly tattooed-on pants drooped to the point of rendering his gait not entirely un-penguin like—neon be-speckled band tee-shirt boasting some grotesque cartoon bunny eating bloodied carrots out of a human skull—black jelly bracelets hiding the fresh and insincere scabs darting back and forth across his wrists like the deeply wrought, criss-crossed claw marks marring the inside of the door that locks his tortured soul deep within the desolate confines of a society that, like his parents, JUST DON'T GET IT!... I took a moment to admire his hair. 

The comb-over.

Glorious.  Truly.

Style dedication so intense, it scoffs at the need for depth perception.  Nearly three-quarters of his pasty, sallow face hidden behind a shroud of flat-ironed, amazingness—like a stealthy villain peaking around a corner, plotting his next crime.  The Phantom of the Vons, hiding the hideous truth behind a mask of Manic Panic Raven Black.  Naturally, I was intrigued.  I wanted to know this little brute's secret.  What was he hiding?  Acne scars, most like.  But nevertheless, I had to take a moment from my cereal shopping to immerse myself in this little scenester's bewitching coif.  He was doing it right.

Then, either due to his obstructed perception of 3D space or, maybe he was texting some brooding, evil-baby-doll, raccoon eye-liner-ed vixen, he walked, full-stride, into a fruit roll up display, sending the boxes tumbling, sliding across the slick linoleum like so many punched out (and delicious) teeth.  He stopped for a moment, never taking his eyes off his phone, then used one slender, milk-white hand to delicately reorder a few errant strands of his incredible comb-over.  He walked on, drawn by the nearly imperceptible whisper of his parent's credit cards rubbing together. 

I stood dumbfounded—and watched as my hand, slowly ascended to my own carefully manicured locks, acting of its own accord, stung and sprung into action by a sudden and searing bout of self-consciousness.  Ya see, I too sport the comb-over but reside in a decidedly and intentionally unstructured camp.  Mine is supposed to be an exercise in precise chaos.  It's perfectly messy—suggesting a resolute aloofness—an uncaring that teeters precariously on the edge of unsanitary—at once, telling the world to fuck off with its force-fed notions of hair maintenance while also alluding to a rushed intensity—a subtle marker, telling the onlooker that I just don't have time in my plight to undermine society's morass of mediocrity to waste it fixing my goddamn hair. And yet! (and here's the twist) it does, in fact, take upwards of two hours to construct the absolutely perfect level of intentional unintentional-ness.  The be-doubled irony!  I care a great deal how uncaring I present myself—which, in turn, is a slightly ripped Converse All Star to the ass of societal norms.  Looking slovenly is supposed to be effortless—but fuck that!  I'll take my time, making sure my disheveled appearance looks as though it took no time to prepare.  Contradictions are the binding agent in a properly executed ensemble. 

Alright, look.  My main point here was to talk about the inherent bad-assery of the comb-over (let's quickly make the distinction that the common comb-over, of the practical, liver-spotted scalp concealing faction is entirely disregarded—also, that comb-over worn by that chick, Justin Beiber).  When it comes to amazing hair, the swooping, face concealing, oft flat-ironed and dyed paragon of stylishness resides squarely in the realm of this... our beloved comb-over.

However, today... oh, today, dear friends, I found myself struggling in the viscous mire of self-doubt which has overshadowed my charge to impart upon you the sacred gospel of the Trend.  Today I am torn asunder—left flailing and bludgeoned by some kid's accidental oneupmanship.  Sure, some may say I'm being a bit dramatic.  In fact, some may argue that there are quite a few similarities between the hipsters and scenesters.  Both lean away from convention, opting to make a political and social statement with their attire—while also bending the very fabric (HA, fabric) of trend definitions to ultimately twist and skew one's very own understanding of the constructs of fashion.  To those people I say, shut your stupid word holes.  We listen to indie rock, not metalcore, for fuck's sake.  (here comes another “and yet”) ...And yet... this young rapscallion was boasting a hair-style that, for all intents and purposes, could be categorized as identical to my own—but somehow, I felt belittled, ingratiated, mocked, betrayed (and slightly hungry) by his effortless grace, poise and FTW-ocity.  I am Scotty Suicide; fashion genius.  How could this little fuck-wad cause me to question my convictions?  Am I a scenester trapped in the (albeit, handsome) shell of a hipster?  Is the comb-over not mutually exclusive by its subtle variances?  How can they claim that sugar cereal is still part of a balanced breakfast? 

What is happening to me?  My identity feels as though it's sloughing off—eroding like the standards of quality television.  I feel empty (more so than usual).

In the end, I went with the REAL Fruit Loops... as punishment.

To be continued...