I love hats. Always have. Baseball caps, cowboy hats, fedoras; all kinds of hats. I’ve loved them since I was a kid. I recall watching old black and white movies from the forties and fifties, thinking how cool Spencer Tracy or Cary Grant were in those fedoras. John Wayne, in his battered old cavalry hat, was the epitome of classic cool, too. When I was a young man, it was all about caps, since fedoras had mostly fallen out of favor, style-wise. Sure, the seventies saw the surge in cowboy hats due to movies like “Urban Cowboy” and “Smokey and the Bandit” but it didn’t last long. I did make a trade with my grade school pal, Eddie, for a ten-gallon brown suede cowboy hat when we were in the fifth grade. It reminded me of Hoss, from Bonanza. I thought I was cool for about five minutes. It’s tough to pull off cool when you’re a pudgy fifth grader, with glasses and a crew cut. Even with a cowboy hat.
The older I got, the more my definition of “cool” changed. It dawned on me, not very long ago, that the very essence of cool is…not caring if what you do, or wear, is cool. You wear it, do it and be it because you feel like “you” when you do. And you love that person, that hat, or that activity. I’ll be fifty-eight this year. It takes time for me to learn new concepts. Now my wife is stuck with an old man who wears anything he likes. Luckily, she loves me. Unless there’s a stain, or a hole in my wardrobe, I seldom get a comment. I think she may have given up on me, as far as “style” is concerned.
Back to hats. I have more than a dozen caps, around four fedoras, three cabbie cabs, three straws and two wool cowboy hats. I have a couple of “Elmer Fudd” cold weather hats that are fur lined, with ear flaps and will not be worn unless the temperature is below freezing. Otherwise, they make me sweat like I’m toting bricks. I also have a Sailer’s service hat, known affectionately as a “dixie cup”. I’m particularly fond of the navy. My nephew-in-law, Casey, is a career submariner. The hat’s unique. Maybe I like it because I like Popeye. I found it at a thrift store for cheap. It fit. I’m keeping it.
My favorite hat would have to be my birthday Stetson. After years of watching a certain Elmore Leonard character, Raylan, rock a hand-crafted Stetson, I finally got one for my birthday a few years ago. I love this hat. I feel Old School Cool in this thing. It fits. It’s beautiful. It was also too expensive. I didn’t wear it for the longest time because I felt like I’d ruin it. That’d be awful. Then I realized, the cool thing about cowboy hats is that they get even cooler when they’re aged, and battle worn. I may not be any cooler, but the hat’s cool. I guess I’ll have to settle for that.
Wearing a hat kind of gives you confidence. It emboldens you, if you let it. You have to commit to the persona. At least, that’s what I thought, until my grandson, Cayde, took me down a notch. On the weekdays, his grandmother (Gigi) keeps him while mom and dad work. I get to see him for a few minutes early in the morning, before I head off to work. During the week, I usually wear one of my soft cabbie caps. Every day he gives me a kiss goodbye by leaning his forehead forward, for me to kiss. Before he does, though, he always takes my cap off, walks over to his Gigi, and makes her put it on. I guess even this one-year-old toddler knows I’m bluffing on the “cool”. He’s right. She’s way cooler than I am.
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Rolling Stones 