When you think of Brooklyn, a flurry of images come to mind. No Sleep ‘Til. The Cosbys. Stoops. Spike. Cheesecake. Yet as of late the casual observer will notice that diners once proudly serving the awful cups of coffee you’ve developed a reluctant addiction towards have morphed into gourmet coffee institutions. A request for a “cup of coffee” will be meet with a blank stare. One must first specify the preferred continent from which the brew arrived. Which type of grinder was used in the process and of course the filter…be sure to clarify whether you’d like a paper (gasp!) or the more obvious choice; hand-woven. Welcome to Brooklyndia. It’s exhausting.
Which is why I felt a wave of undeserving pride when I walked into my local Duane Reade on Flatbush Avenue last week. I was in-between appointments and needed a quick touch-up to my delicate silver strands. Only after weaving in and out of the aisles searching for my Lòreal or my Fekkai did I realize, Before you take this to sound patronizing or reminiscent of the scene in Baby Boom when the couple from Manhattan walk into the country store in Vermont and gush over how adorable everything is and how “fun” it would be to buy a flannel shirt, let me be clear: Im not so down with the Duane Reade-is-the-new-Sephora campaign. Enough with all the Method products. Sometimes a girl just needs bleach and hard core chemicals. My point was, I couldnt make a choice when I realized I was neither a black man nor a woman interested in getting her hair frosted in the 80s.
