I liked tall, skinny hipsters before tall, skinny hipsters even existed. Back then, the only Williamsburg was colonial and thrift stores were for donation only.
This was junior high. The guys were my friends—they were all over six two, all lanky, all in jeans big enough to share. Mike, Frank, Graham, and the Steves overlooked my plain scrubbed face and messy hair. We talked about music no one had heard of, the type of music that made your heart break when you were alone, or defined an evening of a circle of us smoking pot in the basement taking snapshots with a disposable camera. They wore plaid shirts and skater shirts, said ironic politically topical jokes in french class, thought Billy Corgan was a god, and were all secretly brilliant.
In high school, sometimes, someone would bring over a guitar. We would sit in the basement, absentmindedly smoking, listening to someone strum Over the Hills and Far Away. I wasn’t pretty. No one tried to kiss me. We just sat around—a short red head girl and a mess of tall, skinny boys—listening and waiting.