“If you’re trying to be hip, be hip.” — Miles Davis

My sister and my nephew went to a flea market a few weeks ago.  “Dylan,” she said, “See that? Kay Kay used to have one just like it…” She pointed to a vintage clothing stand where hanging on a rack was a plunging silver and gold metallic halter top that was wildly popular back in the early 80’s, the downbow years of the feverish disco era.  A boyfriend of mine had gifted it to me along with a matching leather skirt that I thought was so incredibly chic at the time, that is if you were Carmela Soprano heading to Studio 54 for a night on the town.  I can still remember how that halter felt draped against my skin.  It was as if Gloria Gaynor and Deney Terrio were cheering me on from inside of the reflective metallic chips that held it all together, and if I so desired, I could jump into a frame of Saturday Night Fever and hold my own next to a gyrating John Travolta. I was cool.  Or at least I thought I was. 

The “cool factor” is something you either have, or you don’t.  It cannot be manufactured. I never considered myself cool, although I had moments of cool adjacent during the blooming years. That can be assembled.  Still, it’s a thoughtful process.  When I first moved to Los Angeles, I decided it was time to integrate a touch of the casual west coast vibe it’s so famous for with my more habitual east coast look. 

Now if you’re a woman over 50, it can be a very dicey proposition.  Fail to gauge the proper metric of effortless hip and you might be mistaken for someone who scurried out of bed and forgot to look in the mirror; mastermind too uncomplicated of a look, you risk looking like a female version of Maynard G. Krebs from the TV series “Dobie Gillis.” It’s an art form.  As I chiseled it down, a Saturday shopping trip to Whole Foods meant perfectly faded jeans and a cotton t-shirt with a Bohemian design, along with “Fit Flops” and a light-color polish pedicure. Tortoise framed eyeglasses are a plus.  The look felt assimilative enough, although I could hear my Estee Lauder lipstick screaming from inside of my bag, “Really? Is this what we’re doing now?”   

Around 2019, pre-Covid before the world went into hibernation, I went to see Engelbert Humperdinck at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills.  Talk about cool.  “Enge,” as he’s affectionately known to his fans, is the epitome of cool, even as he approaches his 9^th decade on this earth.  At the time of this performance, he was in his early 80’s and still sporting the mutton-chop sideburns that have become his signature look, along with a red silk shirt that has become the bespoke attire for the King of Romance.  His moves may have slowed with time, but his voice was still imposing and robust.  Listening to Engelbert has always been the auditory equivalent of sipping a glass of brandy–smooth, warm and honeyed to the ear.

As the end of the show approached, the familiar beat of one of his most popular songs, “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando” started to tempo.  The sold-out crowd comprised of mostly women over 50, sprang to their feet and started to sway to the music, keeping in rhythm the best they could with Enge’s cavorting hips. Nothing seemed to matter—arthritic knees, and any fear of looking foolish were cast aside as we became one with “the Hump.”  And Enge knew it, giving the occasional wink to an audience member as if he were making love to her with his voice.    

In that moment we were collectively cool, for nothing is quite as hip as being able to dance with uninhibited abandon.  Whether no one is watching, or everyone is watching, it’s the devil-may-care that gets you there.   

To Enge, always cool … now and forever.