So it’s Halloween night, National Novel Writing Month just began, and I’m thinking about… caps.
Specifically, flat caps. Also called ivy caps, cabbie caps, golf caps and driving caps. Popular since 14th century Britain and Ireland, where they were mandatory. Also popular among some rock stars, actors, rappers and skin heads. And, lately, me.
I’ve seen them in stores and though I kinda liked the look on me, I also thought they’d make me look like I should be stalking the moors or leaning over the seat to ask some tourists if they want uptown or downtown. Instead I wore baseball caps for shade and rain cover, but I’ve finally come to grips with the fact that I’m simply not a baseball cap person. Nothing against baseball cap people, mind you, they’re fine people, won’t hear a word against them, some of my best friends wear baseball caps… but as I do not look as if I would be remotely interested in either throwing a baseball or watching one being thrown, I never felt comfortable in a baseball cap. I knew that at any point someone — and here I’m thinking the hat police, or possibly an armed federal milliner — would unmask me as an impostor and I would be publicly decapitated and ashamed.
I admit I like the Indiana Jones style of fedora, but that looks even more ridiculous on me, try as I might. Bowlers, while suited to my face shape, only work well for carnival barkers and Magritte paintings.
And then a month ago I was killing time wandering around Burlington Coat Factory while Teres browsed everything they had ever even thought of carrying, and I found a flat cap marked down. And, like always, I tried it on. But this time while I can’t say it looked good on me — nothing that still permits my features to be seen can be said to look good on me — it looked less bad. (That’s the hat, seen on my head, on the right. On the left is Jason Mewes, which is enough reason to post the pic all by itself. Mewes, man!) Since then I’ve added a black one for variety and I have my eye on a charcoal gray one for formal occasions.
I’ve also discovered that there are flat cap communities out there. Flat cappers get intense about their hats; what time of the year is right for wool, whether it’s permissible to wear them backwards (never under any circumstances unless you are delivering a calf or you’re Samuel L. Jackson), what it means to wear fluorescent patchwork tweed (mostly it means you’re a prat), etc.
I get some odd looks, but no more than usual. My head remains dry and unsunburnt. I have something to doff at ladies. The average flat cap can easily be crumpled and shoved into a pocket or backpack without damage. I’m almost but not quite trendy, which is as close as I’ve ever been. Other men who wear them nod silently at me, as if welcoming me to their sensible number. My older son, visiting for his birthday last week, mentioned that he’s started wearing them himself independent of my discovery, which was kinda cool. And now my friends and family have a new thing to buy me too many of for holidays, so I’ve got that going for me. I have found my hat.
And now I must stalk off to the moors to start my NaNoWriMo novel.
For some reason I always pictured you as a fishing hat kinda guy. You know, the kind Col. Henry Blake liked to wear.
I always pictured him as a giant foam rubber cowboy hat kinda guy, perhaps with a filthy slogan written on it. Either that, or a knit Rasta top hat w. fake dreds. For convenience, I’ve given example below.
http://www.zymetrical.com/product.asp?3=896
For the record, I also now have a baseball cap, though I too am thoroughly disconnected from the baseball community and its associates. However, mine says ‘Smithsonian’ in big gold embroidery on a black cap, and Laura tells me it looks like an FBI or NCIS agent’s cap. I wear it in the hopes people will come to me about their missing artifacts.