The Hat, and Why It’s Mine

There’s a particular glee to being one of the first to catch on to a new trend—be it clothing, tech, or what have you. It isn’t an arrogant prick thing, that despicable sense of elitism, as admittedly intoxicating as that can be. This is far more rewarding and ultimately benign in spirit; of course, there’s a story.

A story about a hat.

In the winter of ‘99, I stumbled upon the birth of a trend. My father, who is not known as a fashion plate but always the very soul of practicality, gave me for Christmas what I took to be the ugliest damn hat I’d ever seen. Down filled, slightly poofy, but covered in silver fur, with earflaps and snaps. I was living in New York City, but this was utterly Sheboygan. So very not rock-and-roll; we were about to flip the millennium, too. Nobody who wasn’t born before WWII and/or Canadian wore this kind of hat. What the hell was he thinking? Probably got it at Penney’s, knowing him. The hat got tossed on top of a CD rack to be ridiculed and dismissed.

There is a thermal degree at which, no matter how vain the individual, fashion is chucked entirely in favor of comfort. I’d shaved my head only a few months prior; by mid-January the weather had gotten cold enough that necessity forced the thing onto my head at last. What would have been a bitter forced march down Myrtle Avenue to the morning G train became…reasonably less bitter. I didn’t care what I looked like—my head was warm.

My contempt of the hat dissolved in the heat of impressive function, and I became increasingly happy with it, wearing it without shame or embarrassment, even reveling in its ugliness. Sure, I could have easily purchased a nice knit hat with a skull patch on the front, the standard of that lost age, it seemed, with all the rockers and the Japanese girls. But somehow, despite my initial disgust, a few qualities stood out and kept it from finding a suitable replacement:

1. It had fur—real fur!—and breaking with cultural taboos resonates with me.

2. I’m 6′5″ and I can work the “having a really big lookin’ head” thing.
3. Well, it was a gift after all, and the warm feelings associated with my dad were well married to the warm rabbit fur on my brow.

Within a week or so of embracing The Hat—not “the hat,” or “my hat”; it had taken on its own identity at that point—I was walking up MacDougal St. and noticed a guy walking in the opposite direction, across the street. It was cold, of course, and not too many folks were out that day, save for we few intrepid souls who were prepared for the elements, including this man, who was wearing…The Hat! Even though we both also wore sunglasses, within moments I could tell that he was watching me as well. Our footsteps never halted, but it was as if time slowed as we approached a point bisecting the block. Our heads were turning on our shoulders, locked dead on at each other’s faces. Closer, and closer still. Then, simultaneously, we each cracked smiles, dropped our chins and nodded at each other as we passed. In that moment: magic.

Somewhere, a laughing child clapped his hands for the first time. A bird, grown enough at last on regurgitated caterpillars took flight finally from her mother’s nest. And on MacDougal, a silent brotherhood was formed.

“He knows,” we both thought. I cannot explain how it is that I’m so certain that this was exactly what went through his head, but I’m convinced. “He gets it.” Suddenly, The Hat transcended the ugly cool I’d attributed to it, had been wearing with fuck you pride, and became a thing of style. I suddenly understood how well The Hat could be worked into a plethora of looks. I felt so chic, if only within this society of two. I knew full well that it would not be long in our own keeping. Others would catch on.

There is little egotism here. I wasn’t responsible for this thing coming into being; I was just there when it happened. I’m sure it happened a hundred more times with other folks in other cities in other Hats, perhaps, and probably earlier than it did for us that day. Maybe a year or two earlier. Maybe it all only happened in my head, but it by no means only happened on it. Nevertheless, the very fact that it happened made the difference between The Hat wearing me, and me wearing The Hat, and that right there is the key to style. As long as you’re wearing it and not the other way around, you can do pretty much anything and it’ll work. And people will know it. And then people will take it from you.

Sure enough, and despite my best efforts to keep this thing as my own, within a single year The Hat was ubiquitous. It was never mine to begin with. Now seven years hence, it’s all over the crap racks on St. Mark’s, made with fake fur, cat fur, rat fur, wool. You can find the really excellent ones on eBay for thousands of dollars. It’s been In so long it’s Out again, I’m sure. But I don’t care. The Hat remains.

Maybe someday I’ll give a kid The Hat for Christmas. He’ll think I’m the well-meaning but clueless old fart that I thought my dad was.