Illustration by Alex Siklos
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I am not a hat person. They just don’t sit well on my head. I either look like I’m trying too hard to look trendy, or like I have no idea of how to look trendy. For some, hats complete an outfit. They are seen as a fashion accessory. I see hats as a required safety and sun-blocking necessity. I need a baseball cap for sports, sure, and a bike helmet is mandatory, but other than that I go full-on commando.
Which brings me to the first and only time I’ve ever bought a fashionable hat.
My husband had recently been diagnosed with cancer and I was on full-time duty as a loving caregiver. I had spent many months putting one foot in front of the other, trying to manage an unmanageable situation. At the height of summer, my grateful husband insisted on me taking a week off by myself to recharge. He even enlisted the help of his out-of-town sister to facilitate my temporary absence. I had little choice but to succumb to their kind-hearted pressure. I still remember driving to the ferry in tears, feeling like I was abandoning not only my responsibilities, but the love of my life.
Why buy golf balls when there are so many waiting to be found?
As I wandered aimlessly through the throngs of tourists at the ferry terminal, something caught my eye. An unassuming little head covering drowning in a sea of flamboyant fedoras. On a whim, I picked it up and put it on my head. It worked. It was as if my head had met its soulmate. There I was, hat in hand, on my way.
I was yet to learn that this wasn’t just some ordinary hat. It had a willful side to it; a spiritedness that I had not expected, nor for that matter, requested. This hat was in no way married to my head. In other words, it had a mind of its own.
A week passed and I was on my way home. The requisite ferry lineup inched slowly forward and I heard an incessant honking behind me. Feeling slightly irritated – and for some unknown reason guilty – I got out of my car and demanded to know what I had been doing wrong. The lovely woman behind the wheel smiled sweetly and produced my hat.
“I think this may have fallen out of your car window a few miles back,” she said.
Astonished at her kindness, I thanked her profusely and we both continued on our respective journeys home.
Fast-forward to postcancer and life was getting back to a new normal. My husband (and some very good friends) convinced me that I needed to join them in a 100-kilometre bike ride called the Gran Fondo. Most people need to train for this challenging event, and I am no exception. Off the four of us went to a local island, known for its steep hills and great craft beers. Feeling good about my biking ability and an enjoyable weekend away, I quickly realized I had forgotten my precious hat at our recent lodgings. After many phone calls and contributing significantly to the revenue of Canada Post, I finally got my hat back. Now, I told myself, I was never going to let it out of my sight!
Until, that is, we were packing to attend my son’s upcoming wedding in France. He had moved to Paris five years earlier for a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity, fell in love with an adorable young French woman and decided to stay.
The perfect rental car for Italy? No such unicorn, amore
Where was my hat?! I looked everywhere I thought a hat would be: closet shelves, drawers, even old suitcases harbouring the nostalgia of past trips to the City of Light. While I did find an old pair of sunglasses, some expired reading glasses and a set of car keys, my hat was nowhere to be found. Utterly defeated, I packed my bags and off we went to Paris.
A wedding requires a great deal of planning and my son’s was no exception. One afternoon as we were deliberating over seating arrangements, my future daughter-in-law, rummaging through a box of unclaimed items, came waltzing into the living room … holding my hat!
“Does this belong to you?” she asked nonchalantly. I couldn’t believe my eyes. All this time my favourite hat had been leading the high life, masquerading as a chapeau in France! I did note a small red wine stain on its brim, but who could blame it?
“Perhaps your hat is trying to lose you,” my son commented wryly. Giving that a moment’s consideration, I grabbed my treasured possession, popped it on my head and walked back to our hotel – head and hat held high.
Having travelled to France and back with a few other stops along the way, my hat is now pushing five years old. No doubt I’ll need a new one at some point but some things are worth hanging on to, if for no other reason than the cherished memories they hold.
To take excessive liberties with the rhymes of Dr. Seuss, my hat came back, but not the very next day. My hat came back. I thought it was a goner.
Hats, heads and husbands. I hope to never lose any of them.
Loren Plottel lives in Vancouver.
