It’s not the hat. It’s you. That same cap would not give me lastmia if it lived on top of, say, Alexander Skarsgård’s head. If it framed Johnny Depp’s perfect face, it would be downright sexy. But on you it’s just stinking cute.
You haunt me with your brims, old men. You pop out of a grocery store aisle and I scream inside. Boo! Or I catch a glimpse of tweed while I twirl at my bowl of pasta, and suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. Wherever I go, there’s a chance of seeing one of your tender, worn faces under a visor. And smiling. And every time it will feel like the lastima-rug has been pulled out from under me.
Is it a fashion statement? Is it protecting your silver locks or your bald, bare skin from the sun? Is it a rites of passage, like you turn 70 and all at once a bunch of hats come in the mail? Whatever the case may be, I want to tell you that the accessory is adorable. But it’s no match for what lies underneath it - you. You still here after all these years, wise and wacky and worthy. I tip my Fedora at you.
p.s. Is there anything more hipster than a Fedora? What am I thinking?