Hobo Swag

Hobo Swag

Gone are the days where looking like crack whore was confronting and concerning. Wear your pyjamas in public and leave your eyeliner halfway down your face, and you’re considered a fashion icon. I for one, concur whole heartedly. Boo yah! The hobo gods should be raising their goon-filled cups to the stars: we’re free! Finally, a craze where we are not only accepted, but at the top of the fashion chain.

Praise the brunette society who craved rebellion and found their inner harlot by bleaching their hair, only to wake up from their daze of sluttery with regrowth, and not give a flippin heck about it. I came back from a few months away in South-East Asia feeling a bit like a prossy with my regrowth and chipped nail polish (because, let’s be honest, where the dick would I find bleach and nail polish on an island that doesn’t even have a supermarket?) and shock-horror! A Korean girl at the airport complimented me on my “balayage”! So not only have they given this devilish hair behaviour a ridiculous French name, but it’s fashionable.

My severely ripped jeans became more than questionable after returning from a six-month trip containing an abundance of drunk stacks. But I quickly learned that if it wasn’t for the grass/wine stains, my hol(e)y pantaloons would have been an acceptable attempt at this new trend called “boyfriend jeans”. I’m gobsmacked. I can’t believe I’m an accidental style cat. Reow.

Never one to even groom my hair, my eyebrows are a total forest and I will never forget the day when someone informed me that bushy eyebrows were cool and a la Cara Delevingne. There was a definitely a fist pump and at least a year of intense eyebrow germination to the point of caterpillar resemblance/monobrow. I now realise that I took it a level too far, but until recently, I was in complete denial and believed that I was just too good at being trendy.

Girs – adapted to France a little too comfortably, forgetting your ass shouldn’t be fed pastry for breakfast every morning? Don’t stress about coming back home in time for bikini weather – you’re going to settle back in more easily than you thought. Ghetto booties covered in a strip of material are now every girl’s ambition. Walk down Bondi and feel like you’re in Brazil (minus the bronze glow of passing-by butts).

And as for the dudes: beards and man-buns… need I say more? Probably not but damn… facial and cranial negligence on a hobo of the male kind is so visually satisfying.

I fear this period of hobo favouritism may not last long, but I for one am going to abuse it like a goonsack on special and let my natural stinginess flourish with no shame. Hell, I might even push my luck to the edge and rock the trackies (AKA party pants that were so cool in SEA but haven’t been worn once in Aus) as casual day wear. So fellow readers, embrace your inner unhygienic/unhealthy/unashamble scumbag-isms and flaunt them proudly as we, the better of the human kind, are considered “at our best” to the physical eye.

Note: There is such thing as ‘Haute Hobo’ runways and ‘Homeless Hipster’ fashion shoots – people actually aspire to be as cool as us.

derelicte

Cover by Brian Fitzpatrick.

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