Hats off to my ugly hat

My friend Rickie is reacquainting me with the art of knitting—a craft I dabbled in as a child, but never before with the notion that I might actually produce anything that resembles apparel. She has me whipping out lacy scarf patterns and cable stitches, much to the amazement of anyone who acknowledges my inability to be creative. In exchange, to our weekly meetings I come bearing gifts: a bottle of Merlot, a box of Kashi dark chocolate oatmeal cookies (we strive to keep it healthy), or the nubbin of a Nylabone, chewed too small for my twin King German Shepherds, but just the right mouthful for one of her four Australian Shepherds.

Last week she wanted out of the confines of her own house and so we agreed to sit on my front porch and work on our projects.

“I’ll bring my ugly hat,” she typed to me on Google “chat,” the communication venue we prefer to telephone. She was exercising wisdom; the endless winter here in the wilds of Western Montana was on the cusp of spring and we were enjoying one of our first sunny afternoons of the encroaching season. On several subjects we agree, but in relation to skin cancer prevention, these two: As outdoor enthusiasts, we are blessed to live under this big blue Montana sky, but we’ve been cursed with our Celtic ancestors’ pathetic pallor with skin that snaps, crackles, pops, and then peels like aging wallpaper whenever the clouds part; any head covering that blockades basal cell carcinoma, stops squamous cell carcinoma, or impedes malignant melanoma, regardless of how well it performs its function, is unattractive at best.

I readied the coffee pot and put on my trusty, albeit unattractive sunhat—a veritable force against rigorous rays even if distastefully fashioned. Until I saw hers. Her brim was wider, the drape down her neck longer, the color soft, subtle beige. Next to my neon blue sans stampede string and a poor excuse for protection that didn’t even keep my nose under cover of shade, Rickie’s solar shield was vastly superior. And even uglier.

“If we were out hiking they would look better,” I rationalized. She wasn’t buying.

“We are well-protected,” she determined as the only positive position here.

“You far more than I,” I admitted my jealousy then shamelessly asked her where she’d purchased hers and vowed to seek it out online as soon as she left—how soon would that be? I was frantic to get my hands on one—if you are going for pure function, why stop at merely half-ugly? Besides, there was a certain joie-de-vivre to her longer neck drape and netted crown air ventilation.

Just then my husband strolled past us en route to his workshop—tall, rugged, and handsomely clad in jeans, western shirt, and the quintessential cowboy hat that served as sufficient sun sentinel. Why do men get to look so stylish in their SPF?

“Hi Rickie,” Brad greeted my guest. “Nice hat.” The palpable ping of sarcasm validated our concern over chapeau couture.

“Why do our hats look so much better in the catalog?” I asked aloud and then realized the answer to my own question: quite probably because the models are 20 years old and fly fishing as opposed to 58, sitting on a rocking chair, and knitting on the front porch.

After much machination over color choice, I restricted myself to two from the website that Rickie had recommended. And the more I looked, the better they looked—like when you resist a new clothing trend for only so long because, face it, it’s hideous, but the longer it’s out there, the more adapted you grow until before long, you’ve broken down and are strutting it.

I grew so accustomed to their appearance, in fact, that I had to censor myself after narrowing it down to my favorite pair. Rickie, however, only knows of one and won’t learn of the other until she reads this—I couldn’t break her heart even further by letting her know more than I did. It must have been difficult enough for her to digest that my new and improved style is double hers in SPF, the brim an inch wider, and with a rather rakish ribbon around the base of the crown. Hers is old hat; how could I lower the boom and admit that I bought both the understated beige and an olive trimmed and under-brimmed in basic black for those dressier out-of-doors outings to town?

No sooner had I feared her morals might plummet due to uncontrollable envy, my anguish was extinguished. When I Google “chatted” to tell her that I’d taken my animal-unfriendly Shepherd for a walk and had carried with me a stick in case of “attack,” she responded with complete objectivity regarding my noggin accessory—the sun was shining; it was a given that I’d worn it.

“Wouldn’t your new hat be enough to ward off any attack?” she queried.

Obviously, she thought I’d been warding off humans since any animal in its right mind would be attracted to the flapping bird wing hanging down to my back. Something tells me she won’t covet my collection after all.