You need the right type of head to wear a hat properly. Or maybe you need the right kind of attitude. Or is it the hair? Whatever the secret is, I don’t have it; I didn’t inherit the hat gene. Not everyone does, but not everyone realizes it.
They look ridiculous. You’re supposed to look elegant, born to fashion. The lucky women who do have an unfair advantage over the rest of us. Hats are the greatest convenience of modern times. Having a bad hair day? Pop on a hat. Warts? A hat with a veil. Cold? A wooly cap. Sleepy? A wide, floppy brim, cocked at the right angle. There’s no limit to what a hat can hide.
Princess Diana was born to wear hats. The Queen, too. ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’ my eye. Those dames have ladies-in-waiting, personal secretaries, palaces teeming with eager helpers, they don’t need to look good in hats, too. Women with crummy hair and no beauty skills need the hat-friendly heads. Women like me.
In the bleak depths of winter I will resort to a hat with ear flaps. Even in a size small, the thing is proportioned like an astronaut’s helmet, albeit red and fuzzy. I need the chin strap just to keep it anchored. Nothing but desperation, and a pathological fear of being cold, could coerce a hat onto my tiny head. Nothing. Other women look terrific in the same style hat, casual and fun, trendy, even. Me? No.
I only want to look good in hats. Why is that asking too damn much?