The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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A woman sitting next table to me at the newly remodeled Island Café said, “You’re lucky my husband isn’t here.” Since I hadn’t made a pass at her, I asked why was that and she said he used to wear a battered, beat up, half composted hat a lot like mine. “He called it his ‘Go to Hell ‘ hat.”

It’s amazing how this old fedora of mine elicits continuous comments and sometimes physical interventions. I was accosted by the Safeway security guard up north awhile back who demanded I stop. “Stop? Who, me?” I asked and she insisted I produce a receipt of purchase after accusing me of stealing the two half racks of beer I was loading into my truck. Not that my hat made me a Prime Suspect. Safeway, let it be known far and wide, is a Profiler. And apparently my sombrero fit their profile.

Sitting in an airport lounge a few years ago, an attractive stewardess sat herself down next to me to ask which I was, a writer or a musician? She at least didn’t ask if I was an artist or a bum. Or an old geezer with a Go to Hell hat or a shoplifter.

I’ve worn hats since I was a kid in high school, mostly the ones my grandpa gave me when he’d updated to a new one. Me, I don’t update. And anyway, I don’t have an impressionable grandkid to lead down some non-conformist primrose path. A hat makes a good umbrella. It keeps my head warm and it hides my uncut hair, saving me hundreds of dollars in bad haircuts. I don’t go anywhere without one, sort of like a credit card only the truth is, it makes getting credit harder, more profiling, I guess. So I wear mine until it falls pretty much to pieces, then, worst case, I’ll put em on my garden scarecrow to give the crows and the deer a good laugh.

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