Back in the hippie days I acquired a white Stetson 5X Beaver cowboy hat. It had been a gift to a big-headed man. As it did fit me, it was convenient to us both.
I flattened the brim, pushed the top out round, and put a feather in it. I had a vision of some dreamy hippie chick admiring the hat, leading to some free love.
Never got the chance.
My first hour under my new brim among my buddies and some loudmouth called, “hey man, nice hat!”
I doffed and smiled.
He said, “I’d like to have two of them, just like it.”
I had to ask, “Why?”
“One to shit in, the other to cover it up with.”
I turned the corner, took it off, and never wore it again.
I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life. As an entrepreneur, I’ve been chief cook and bottle washer in probably a dozen small businesses from baking cheesecakes to designing greeting cards to writing books and everything entailed in getting them to market. But real hats? Maybe a handful, if that.
I just don’t have a head for hats. As much as I love them, they don’t love me. I have a small head and a narrow face, and most hats are too tall in the crown and make my face look too long. If I’m trying on hats in a shop, nine times out of ten I put one on, glance in the mirror, then take it off as quickly as I can before anyone sees me. Yikes! But over my lifetime, there have been a select few that worked and that I wore again and again.
Easter Breton
How cute is my little white straw Breton? (I think that’s what the style is called but I could be wrong.) It had navy blue trim, and I remember wearing it while walking around the school track in the Easter Parade. Here, if I’m not mistaken, I seem to be gathering eggs — or maybe it’s fruit — in my Aunt Blanche and Uncle Ernie’s backyard. That’s my late brother, Larry, wearing a rare smile. One of my favorite photos.
Isn’t it romantic?
Throughout my 40s I wore this woven hat in the spring and summer. Romantic, timeless, with an open crown that didn’t add unwanted length to my face, and perfect with dresses or jeans, I wore this hat until it finally fell apart.
Not a real cowgirl!
I love cowboy hats (and cowboy boots) but not having anything to do with horses, I feel like a poser when I wear them — unless we’re stepping out for some two-stepping at Swallows Inn where they’re de rigueur. (Hopefully we can dance in public again post-pandemic.) Still, I’m afraid someone will come up and say a la Sis (Debra Winger) to Bud (John Travolta) in Urban Cowboy, “You a real cowgirl?” (Of course she used the word “cowboy.”)
Just a few months ago Garth and I were window shopping in San Juan Capistrano, and although the museum and a lot of the shops were closed, we wandered into a little boutique that had recently opened. Magnetically, I was drawn to this black hat, put it on, glanced in the mirror, and marched to the cash register. Wore it out of the store. Wear it walking the dog, running errands, meeting up with friends. I’m now the woman in the black hat.
Woman in Black Hat
My favorite hats are the ones in some of my favorite paintings (no surprise). Now, this, Woman in Black Hat by Egon Schiele, is how I’d really like to look in a hat…and I do, in my dreams.
