I about died over “Blake,” despite the fact that I think you woefully miscategorized at least some of the world’s Blakes. Surely there must be a hipster Blake or two to break the mold? Anyways, can you do my name, too?
— Cheryl, Bankers Hill
Welp, I didn’t see this coming. If you really want me to, I will….
Cheryl comes from a long line of hipsters. Her parents met at a bar when they were both in college. Her dad’s band played reggae covers of Devo songs. Her mother named her after an underrated singer that, still, nobody has ever heard of.
Cheryl has a tattoo of Zombie William Shakespeare on her upper arm, which she got to cover up the single word “Believe” that she and her girlfriends from high school got in a moment of extremely un-hipster sincerity during graduation week.
Cheryl doesn’t curse.
At the center of Cheryl’s social life is a book club, and at the center of that book club is Cheryl. Once a month, she hosts a circle of her closest hipster friends, 7 to 12 of them at a time. They congregate at Cheryl’s house to discuss fiction by Miranda July, Dave Eggers, and Jonathan Safran Foer; or perhaps any nonfiction book that profiles a human crisis happening just beyond the reach of the developed world. Book-club attendees consume, on average, .75 bottle of wine per person.
If she weren’t a hipster, Cheryl would be the kind of girl who wears pearl jewelry, but — plot twist — she does anyway.
Just look at all the...figs Cheryl doesn’t give!