I married this guy 33 years ago and had no idea how he’d turn out. But if I’d had to bet on it, my money would be on him buying a hat like this someday.
Even when he was 33, dressed in jeans and Frye boots, he wore a cabbie hat. He was, when I met him, a man with the the courage to wear a hat. That’s something. It meant he had a sense of himself that overpowered his worry about what other people would think. You’d be surprised how many people – men and women – draw their courage line at the donning of a hat. I wouldn’t be one of them but I get it.
The hat he is wearing is a bowler. It’s a statement hat. It’s the same hat worn by Stymie in Little Rascals. There’s no getting lost in the crowd with a bowler hat. Heads will turn. We saw a man wearing a bowler stroll into an ice cream store a few months ago and my husband tore after him to compliment his hat and talk about where he’d bought it. It was clear to me at that moment that he aspired to owning a bowler, his admiration was so real, thicker than the butter pecan.
So for a long while, we would visit the bowler in a wonderful hat store in our town.
He thought it cost too much. It was extravagant. I disagreed, mostly so I could justify buying this hat for myself.
I love the hat store. The hats are all beautiful and, when you look at them, you think each one would look lovely on your head. You’re disabused of that idea when you try them on but while they are arranged on their stands, you can envision. It is the envisioning, after all, that counts, with hats and most of life.
Finally, he bought the bowler. He’s worn it a couple of times, but when he came home tonight, he looked exquisite wearing the hat. As if his head and face had been born to be fit under that wonderful hat. A bowler. Perfect.