When I was between homes and drifting badly through life, I met my fair share of hippies with safety nets. Rich kids with a chip on their shoulder who were slumming it by choice, all pretending that their motivations were spiritual and not just bog-standard teenage rebellion taken to an extreme. I had hated them because, to me, they seemed incapable of seeing what a privilege it was to be able to reject what was expected. I had never felt as if I’d ever had a choice. My rejection was thrust upon me. But, as infuriating as I found the trappings of late ’90s hippiedom, I would take their
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