Bitches Don’t Know How Cool I Am
Graphic by Téa Sklar
Right now, we’re teetering on a microscopic, "can’t-see-her-from-the-side" dust particle skinny line. It’s the razor-thin divide between Cool Alternative Queer With a Villain Backstory™ and Crunchy Almond Granola Girl Who Sings in a Christian Church Band Called ‘Revival.’ I’m scared, and quite frankly, I’m afraid.
I’m not here to burst the bubble of the people who rightfully belong in that latter group. I see you. Your visibility days are somewhere in June, I know it. But in the colder months? We are all tragically homogenized. Under the oppressive weight of North Face puffers and Michelin-man coats, we are a monolith of beige and polyester. For the first time in my life, I truly understand the systemic hatred for school uniforms.
In the winter, the visual cues of a soul are effectively deleted. It’s a tragedy of logistics:
Tattoos? Deep-sixed under three layers of Uniqlo Heattech.
Piercings? Cruelly muffled by heavy-knit scarves.
The Micro Bangs? Either decimated by a 20-mph wind chill or secured for their own safety inside a pilled Carhartt beanie.
I had this conversation with a professor once. He tried to get all "TedTalk" on me—leaning back in his chair, probably basking in that bright orange Syracuse Otto money—and told me that maybe bitches not knowing how cool I am is exactly what makes me cooler. He suggested that my "True Cool Potential" exists deep in my heart and soul, and maybe! Just maybe! Bitches don’t have to know.
That’s what they pay the big bucks for, apparently. Deep-tier psychological warfare to keep me from crying over my hidden ink.
So, I’ve been reflecting. Maybe the coolest people aren't the ones screaming their aesthetic from the rooftops in July. The ones who let you think they’re "Revival Band" material for three months, only to eventually roll up a sleeve or shrug off a jacket and—BAM. Subverting expectations is the ultimate high. If I have to look like a generic marshmallow for twelve weeks just to make the eventual reveal of my stick-and-pokes feel like a religious experience for the onlooker? I guess I’ll endure it.
But for the record: The wind is still the enemy of the bangs.