The Way You Wear Your Hat

"Shabby gentility has no characteristic but for it's hat."

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Since summer began it's cruel, damnable hostility in the Delta, with it's beating rays and unforgiving glare, the days I am not sequestered in an air-conditioned environment, I am wearing a hat. This hat was selected in a handsome shop in the French Market known as Latin's Hands during the Creole Tomato Festival. It certainly makes sense for one to wear a hat in this climate. I sincerely believe that it keeps the wearer at least ten degrees cooler as well as adding a bit of fashionable mystique. The hat I chose suits me well. I had tried several different styles from the typical pork-pie that the Quarter hipsters don to a faux-fedora that reminded my companions for the day of the late Truman Capote. Although I admire the deceased Southern writer very much, I don't want to look like him, especially during that sad, post Studio 54 period. I chose a hat that is made of tightly woven palm leaves with a wide brim and a dark band. A prosperous Delta planter might be pictured wearing a hat like this. More on that later.



I never believed myself to be a so-called "hat person". My head is too big. Everything I put on seemed to look perched on top of my head. The proportions were incorrect. I was told a few months ago that there is a psychological block that one must tear down in order to comfortably wear a hat. This is true. I tried on a few until I found the one for me. I wear it at an angle to the left which might suggest that I was out to impress the ladies, but I can assure you, I'm out to impress everyone.

It's funny how hats have the ability to influence perceptions about the wearer. Last Wednesday I was having cocktails with an aquaintance who regarded my hat as very provocative of the romance of the Old South. He conjured images of frosty mint juleps sipped on a sweeping verandah while happy darkies sang in the fields. I could hear the mistress of the plantation saying, "Finish your juleps now, gentlemen. There will be no more liquor served until after breakfast!" Although, that is certainly not the life I live, I cannot help but identify with that image. Then I remember, it is just a hat. No one is cutting cane. I have a set of silver julep cups, but they are not likely to contain a bourbon cocktail. I live in an apartment that in no way resembles Gerald O'Hara's Tara. I will admit that I have a fondness for negro spirituals, however. Unfortunately, I still get Truman Capote references.

Admittedly, any hat I have ever worn has had a Southern fancy to it. It has been a long hallowed tradition among my dearest friends that Easter be celebrated with the wearing of fantastic chapeaux that rival any found in an upscale haberdashery in the city. Mine were always wide brimmed numbers that were worn to the side, reminiscent of Dolly Levi's in Thornton Wilder's The Matchmaker. Or, more likely, Gene Kelly's Hello, Dolly! My only requirement in the design of these Easter hats was that, not only should they be beautiful, but they should also tell a story. They became fantasies of hydrangeas and ladybugs, honeysuckles and hummingbirds and a particular favorite which I called "Berry Festival" which featured a feather butterfly perched atop a toppled berry container, full of mischief and quite pleased with himself.


I look forward to Easter every year for this reason. Not only does it give me an opportunity to wield a hot-glue gun, but it provides an avenue for creative expression. My hat this past year was inspired by one I saw in a window on Royal Street that carried a $325.00 price tag. I re-created this chapeau for literally $17.00. Albeit, I wasn't using the same quality of materials, but the effect was the same, as well as the sense of satisfaction I derived from feeling like "Hey! I can do that, too!"

I've decided that in creating future Easter bonnets, I will be going for more realism than whimsy. If sheared rooster feathers and magnolias are good enough for Uptown ladies, they are more than good enough for me.