She Wears a Lot of Hats

I've said it before, but I play many roles in this life. Aside from the traditional, obvious ones, sometimes I like explore the less-common elements of who I am. For example, when I'm out doing yard work, I take great joy in wearing little-old-lady gardening gloves. They're not just for protection (though thank heavens I have them when fighting the weeds on my property), they're for character development. When I'm wearing the gloves, I can pretend that I'm not spreading manure or spraying my lawn with weed-n-feed. I can picture myself as a proper southern lady, tending her lovely garden. When I'm cooking in the kitchen, I don't wear an apron just to protect my clothes-- it's part of my uniform. It doesn't just say, "Kiss the Cook" (always a good idea), it says, "Hey! I'm Little Suzy Homemaker, and yes, my 103-year-old Great Grandmother DID make me this apron. I'm traditional."
Fashion and uniforms just have that way of helping you transform from one role to the other. Not that I haven't been known to wear fishnets and false eyelashes to work or church, but if I'm working a trade show, I'm wearing a Ray Sego Insulation shirt. If I'm working a movie premiere, I try to look professional and hip (no boxy lady suits for me, thank you very much).
And yet, no accessory will help identify my current position or preoccupation more easily than a hat. I love 'em. I have dozens of them. And I don't wear them enough.
I think the trouble really started in sixth grade. I used to wear a BYU hat every day-- as well as any other BYU paraphernalia I could get my hands on. Yes, I was even the kid with the annoying key chain playing the Cougar Fight Song (Rise, all loyal Cougars, and throw your challenge to the foe!). But I digress.
One fateful day (nearly 16 years ago to the day), I was on a class trip to Los Alamos. We'd gone to Fenton Lake in the Jemez Mountains, tooled around in Bandelier, visited the National Atomic Museum, and spent a fair amount of time swimming, scheming and in my case, swooning. The love of my life at the time (and just about every other girl's) was Joshua Jolly. Props to Christina Angel for marrying him. In sixth grade, he was such a stud! Actually, no, he was like, the biggest nerd on the planet, but we all know I've always loved the brainiacs.
Anyway, one night my chaperon, Annie Schaub, had compassion on her son Clay who was whining about being hungry. Annie got Clay's chaperon to agree to walk with us down to McDonald's. As fate would have it, Josh was Clay's roommate, and I felt oh-so-grown-up. After all, I'd be 12 in a matter of hours. So as we walked down a busy street in Los Alamos, I listened to Josh and some other little nerdy guy or another quote "Wayne's World" and thought, "Yes! This is my big break!" But it was not meant to be. Josh and I stood in line together, and gentlemanly as he was, he allowed me to order first. I asked for a Happy Meal. I paid the cashier. And then she said, "Thank you, young man."
YOUNG MAN? Even with my BYU baseball cap, I'd never considered for one moment that I looked like a boy! And actually, I'm pretty sure this woman was a bit of an idiot, but still. No more hats for me. Ironically, I had no problem wearing my special birthday outfit the next day (khaki shorts, a blue blazer and a blue plaid necktie I'd worn for the Zone competition of the Optimist Oratorical Contest, with my winning speech of "I Can Make A Difference"), which was a little "Dead Poet's Society" and private-boy's-school-chic, but whatever. That summer, I got an awful, layered haircut in an effort to look more feminine. I looked like Richard Simmons, so you can make the call on that one. Regardless, I was done with hats for a while.
Thankfully, I grew out of the awkward stage, and there's been a major return to hats and haberdashery in my life. Sometimes it's to make a statement, and sometimes it's just for fun.
The other day, I was in an antique store and found some great treasures:

Yes, those are fezzes. Why in the world would anyone (who's not a Shriner) want one? Well, my cousin Garret and I came up with a good plan last summer. We have an uncle with a large and lovely family. They're all pretty good people, but we sometimes laugh at their pretension. Every year for the family reunion, we go to a Mormon Pioneer Day celebration in Manassa, Colorado, and watch a parade. It's a grand tradition. But last year, it wasn't enough for Uncle Lane's family to watch. The million grandkids were actually IN the parade.

Now, I ought to say the float was lovely. The kids are adorable, and my cousin Lorilynn did an incredible job turning a trailer into a fantasy of tulle and tissue paper. Still, Garret and I thought it would be a grand idea to each don a fez, hop on four-wheelers, and ride alongside the float. There are always Shriners in the parade, so why not? It wasn't so much that we didn't have the nerve last year, we just didn't have the hats. Happily, that is no longer an obstacle.

In my years as a hat-wearer, I've adored myriad styles. For a while, I was strongly influenced by Molly McIntyre of "American Girl" fame, and wore a beret. In later years, the beret collection has proven useful especially when doing dramatic readings of beatnik poetry. I had to abandon them for a bit after someone told me I looked like Monica Lewinsky, but it feels like they're safe to wear again.

Sometimes, I'll even endorse the trendy hats. Newsboy caps are super cute, especially if they fit one's head well. This is occasionally a problem, because my own noggin is a bit on the large-side, but I recently found a super version of the newsboy at the airport in Barcelona. It was a good way to spend the last of my Euros.

Of course, there are other times when a hat is not at all popular with the mainstream folk. I once picked up a GREAT Rastafarian beret at Albuquerque's Buffalo Exchange. My favorite senior picture is a shot with this hat, which was much truer to my personality than the awful black missionary-style dress with the lace collar and pearl buttons. Guess which one my mom made me put in the yearbook? I lost that hat at EFY, and have been looking for a good replacement ever since.
In the mean time, I wear all sorts of inappropriate hats whenever possible. The pillbox hats I find at antique stores and garage sales delight me, even if they only end up as decorations in my guest room.

Once, on a trip to New York, I bought a hat purely for status reasons. It was my dream of dreams to buy something at Henri Bendel, which was ridiculous. I couldn't really afford anything there, and the entire sales staff knew it. But I found this crazy, Ascot-style hat on sale, and purchased it on the spot. I was pretty proud of myself as I walked from Bendel's back to my hotel in Times Square (hello, tourist!) and a bird flew over and pooped on my arm. Yes, the very arm with the Bendel's bag. I took it as a sign from heaven to stop being so prideful, but I have grown to love the hat. On a few occasions, I've even worn it to church, though as it is black, I'm always a little afraid I appear in mourning whilst wearing it.

As recently as last night, my head-wear has taken some dramatic and unexpected turns. Garret took me for a ride on his new motorcycle. I always knew I was a fan of the do-rag:

But imagine my delight in legitimately sporting a helmet! Incidentally, I truly prefer the Vespa set to the Harley folk, but a helmet opportunity is still an opportunity.

Since the McDonald's episode, I generally try to go for the more feminine looks-- the cloche is an excellent option, especially when one can find a version large enough to accommodate a lot of hair. Big hair is a blessing, but can be difficult if a faux-bob obstructs the intended line of the hat.

I love hats so much that I suspect someday my own wedding apparel will include a birdcage veil and hat:

So now all that's left to do is find a man who looks good in a Panama hat, and the rest will be history.