The Hat Trick

“Incognito Look”

Well I see you got your
Brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat...
Well, you must tell me, baby how your
Head feels underneath somethin' like that

                                                          -- Bob Dylan

It was bound to happen. What with all the options for men's headwear. I realized by coincidence that I had finally made it, finally graduated without noticing. There he was: an old fart in a dated white Volvo sitting in the car next to me, his window down, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

He was wearing a duffer's bucket hat just like I was.

We were experiencing a rite of old-man-passage together.

I was about to wave, "Hey bro," before his foot hit the gas pedal and he turned to dust, a mirage in my mind's eye of a man in a floppy-brimmed hat who had succumbed, without shame or pride, to the inevitable.

The bucket hat is certainly a sign that appearance no longer matters. Style is out the window. You're not a young man. Do as you please. You're free, old fella. Enjoy being a geezer, cause you look like one.

For the middle years, the baseball cap is the go-to head-cover for the American male. A well-known President even turned it into a bright red campaign banner with political slogan. Witnessing that, I should have changed chapeaus four years ago!

But you really can't go wrong with a baseball cap. It's a symbol of our national pastime. It's sporty and manly, the preferred hat for contractors, surfers, fishermen and hip-hop artists. Wear it backwards or tilted and you're looking sick, dude. I've worn them for years, but not without a funny feeling of, shall we say, normality, lack of creativity. Not that there's anything wrong with being one of the guys, a good Joe, Pete or Sam.

As a man's hair begins to thin on top, he searches for something to cover exposed skin on his pate. If you reside in certain parts of the country, say Montana, Arizona, Nevada for example, you've got the cowboy-hat option, another iconic American symbol of virility and the Wild West. I love cowboy hats, but it's an extreme statement, even in places like Santa Cruz where you can put a trash can on your head and not receive a second glance.

Seeking an alternative to the ubiquitous baseball cap, over the years I've donned a sports cap, fedora, Panama, pork pie and even a beret. Let me tell you, wear a beret and you're going to invite comments and a raised eyebrow. Anything that men perceive to be French is suspect. You're up to something. You're not one of us. You s'ppose t' be an artist or somethin?

"No, I'm just expressing my feminine side." Don't say that.

Women tend to love berets on men. Just sayin. Take it or leave it. It's your head.

Beanies, formerly known as stocking caps, are big for men: very masculine, evoking an aura of untamed wilderness and warmth, of cold, foggy mornings at the beach. If you can't find your baseball cap, grab your beanie. You're instantly one of the guys.

During my final years of employment I worked at the beach. I organized and emceed beach parties. I spent time outside in the sun and covered my sun-shy noggin with a lifeguard hat, a large, wide-brimmed straw thing. One of my clients referred to me as "The Hat." I needed to stand out.

Those were the days: When hundreds of people would gather to eat, laugh and play. I received lots of swag at these beach parties, including bags, towels, hats and caps.

Recently I was going through a box of head-coverings that I'd saved over the years, a treasure chest of heady memories.

I reached in and pulled out the green baseball-cap with the word Humboldt in bright yellow letters, a gift from my daughter Vanessa when she was attending Humboldt State University. This seemingly innocent cap always brought a wink and a nod. In a single word, it apparently referenced a brand of Emerald-Triangle marijuana. "Behind the Redwood Curtain" was the school's unofficial slogan.

There was my straw sports cap from Uruguay that I purchased on a trip to South America to visit our daughter Bryna who had given birth there to a granddaughter, Viva.

There was the well-faded maroon-colored baseball cap that Johnny Rice gave me, with his cool Native American-inspired logo in blue and yellow.

Here was the grey baseball cap with the Burning Uke VII art on the front, purchased at that event held at Plaskett Creek Campground near Big Sur, evoking memories of singing and strumming ukuleles around the campfire with friends.

And, what was this? A khaki-colored, floppy brimmed hat seemed to be starring at me from inside the box. Hardly worn, I picked it up and placed it on my head. It came to me as swag at a beach party. Although I had never worn the hat, I kept it.

It fit my head like a good shoe. It offered sun protection. It felt like a disguise, a utilitarian cover that I might float under without fanfare, a subtle statement of acceptance, a perspective from which to observe without notice the comings and goings of the human comedy.

A voice whispered in my ear, "It's time. Wear me."

At that moment Barbara walked into the room, her eyes directed toward mine, her lips parting with naked laughter.

"You remind me of old man Bracegirdle," she said.

I had a vague picture in my mind of whom she spoke. It wasn't pretty.

Following a moment's reflection, I thought, if I could wear a beret, I could wear a duffer's bucket hat.

"It's the new me," I said.