No longer dismissed to Walden-like hermitage, the folksy flannel wearer strums his guitar under shocks of autumn-colored leaves, serenading squirrels. You might even see him at the occasional party, gripping his PBR like a life preserver.
But bros drink those too—and sorority chicks dig oversized flannels. In the long run, what will separate the hipster men from the boys is neither the thread count of their soft cotton nor the acuity of their musical taste. It’s not even the hoppiness in their microbrew IPA. Centuries after we’re dead and gone, “hipster” historians will emerge bleary-eyed from a 10-hour marathon of Portlandia with a single question: “Did he put a beard on it?”
These men did, even if they aren’t actually hipsters. And now they provide us with a visual guide to facial coziness in the early days of Northwestern winter.