Have you ever noticed how some people are “hat people” and others aren’t?
I fall into the latter category. Hats look terrible on me; while a friend of mine, who dragged me along hat shopping last week, could put a burlap bag on her head and look like Cindy Crawford. I could do the same thing and look like Broderick Crawford. People could give me spare change, for heaven’s sake!
So, off we trundled to “Hats, Hats, Hats.”
The first one she picked up was a top hat, reminiscent of Fred Astaire and long, elegant staircases. She looked magnificent in it. She put it on my head, and I resembled a deranged version of Abraham Lincoln.
Next, a cloche. This is a French-style hat, made of felt, rounded on the top with a soft brim that rolls upward. She looked like a high-fashion Parisian. I looked like a toad peeking out from under a rock.
But I humored her. That’s the kind of person I am.
She tried on a velvet baseball cap and looked wonderful. I looked like Daffy Duck’s wife.
“Please,” I begged, “buy one and let’s go.”
“Oh, but there are so many to choose from!” she burbled. “Let’s try a few more.”
I was being punished for something, I just knew it.
She tried on a white felt hat with a veil. Men would have dropped dead if they ever saw her in it. She put it on me and…voila! A beekeeper!
Next, a cowboy hat. She: Dale Evans. Me: Trigger.
She finally settled on a gray wool Kangol wedge cap. It really looked cute on her, and I could easily envision her wearing it behind the wheel of a vintage sports car. When I tried it on, I looked like Ed Norton sporting a manhole cover. But I didn’t care at that point. It was over. She had the hat wrapped up and we left for lunch, which turned out to be delicious.
While drinking our coffees, she picked up her package and held it out.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
I wonder if there are any job openings in the Department of Sanitation.