I’ve always thought my personal aesthetic was plain enough to defy labeling, but it seems I was wrong. On what is surely a very slow news day, the Observer has decided to run a lengthy trend piece that describes, in excruciating detail, the group to which I apparently belong: the Urbane Tomboy. To save you the trouble of reading the 1,000-plus words: We “UTs” love us some expensive jeans, cute t-shirts, oversized cardigans, messy hair, and minimal makeup. We work from home and/or in “creative industries.” We clean up right nice but only when we absolutely have to, and we complain about it the whole time. We drink beer and whiskey, aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty or our brows sweaty, and enjoy the occasional dirty joke. Guys like us because we don’t confuse them with elaborate beauty routines, complicated accessories, or brightly colored cocktails that end in -tini.

So when you see me marching down the street in my artfully ratty high-low uniform of t-shirt, cardigan, jeans, and trainers (some expensive, some not), the split ends of my nondescript brown ponytail bouncing with each step, manuscript peeking out of my plain yet pricey bag, take a moment to salute the Urbane Tomboy–someone who likes to be comfortable, modestly stylish, and has better things to do than to obsess over perfect hair and makeup (otherwise known as about 80% of the women in New York).

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