The relationship between a man and his hat is perhaps one of the most intimate relationships that can ever be had this side of eternity. Rain or shine, nothing comes between a man and his hat save for hair alone. Only marriage, or a beloved Golden Retriever, has such relationship status. It is a relationship for all to see, free and open to public judgment -- god or bad, warranted or unwarranted. And still, man and his hat go alone to be alone in the quiet of their shared life together. Shared life, as ordinary and spectacular as daily life itself.
A man with such a hat knows that the relationship between man and hat cannot and can never be built upon utilitarianism. A hat is more than a head covering or harbinger of shade. Nor can a the relationship be built upon the sandy foundation of mere fashion or attractiveness. Superficiality only goes so far. A man and his hat share a common bond, a common thread, a shared fabric of being. Lucky is the man who knows such a friend and companion as a hat.
My hat stumbled into my life unexpectedly in the summer of 2009 as I was perusing the shelves of Goodwill when it caught my eye. She was a 90s era snapback hardly, if ever, worn. Her perfectly Crayola Crayon red bill was flat and crisp. The "M" stitched on the the front was elegant and noble. Her perfectly sewn panels popped the sharpest royal blue. And of course, the bubble print "Mickey" and the iconic Mouse himself were stitched exquisitely on her backside. She was beautiful.
Together, my hat and I skated all over Tallahassee and the southeast. We attended innumerable punk
hardcore shows. Sweating and crowd surfing and stage diving. More than a few times, she would go missing in the bustle of the pit only to be returned after the show by a stranger who had picked her up off the beer soaked floor. It is true that on more than one occasion, I have been recognized in other states by people I had never met before who had seen pictures of the royal blue Mickey Mouse hat at shows.
Together, my hat and I paddled Florida's scenic and wild rivers and surfed the coast in my short-lived whitewater kayaking days.
Together, my hat and I moved to Memphis for an internship. Suffered through the mid-south's ungodly hot and humid summer working with teenagers and painting houses in Memphis' Orange Mound neighborhood where mischievous seventh graders would try to splatter or swipe paint across her majesty. We got over it.
Together, my hat and I graduated from Florida State University and moved to Nashville, Tennessee. She was there by my side, or on top of my head rather, through two relationships.
Together, my hat and I logged countless miles on the Appalachian Trail, traveled thrice times across the country, worked as a mountain guide in Colorado, summited over a dozen big mountains, climbed hundreds of pitches on steep southeastern sandstone, suffered through two Wild Hog Canoe Races, three broken bones, and three years of graduate school.
My Mickey Mouse hat has accompanied me nearly every day since that fateful afternoon in 2009, minus a few unintended extended absences where she went missing (like the time she got eaten by Amanda's couch in 2010 or the alpine storm debacle on Wetterhorn Peak in 2013).
Over the years, her age has begun to show. Her vintage snapback, now coveted by hipsters and hip-hop enthusiasts alike, has been mended by electrical tape, duct tape, crazy colored duct tape, and finally climbers tape. Her bold royal blue has darkened to a near black and her crisp red bill is bent to perfection and tarred by grease. The giant "M" stitched on her front panel is all but lost to paint and grease, and chalk. Her sweatband has all but completely disintegrated. The iconic Mickey Mouse has lost most of its stitching. To many who knew her in her earlier days, she is completely unrecognizable.
But like cheese, I thought, she was only getting better with age.
But well-intentioned friends and family members and malevolent naysayers and detractors would sling harmful, hateful words like "gross," "nasty," and "disgusting" at us. I always dreamt of a day when a pretty girl would wear my Mickey hat, as pretty girls wear their beau's hat at the beach or in the woods. But no girl would touch the hat on my head, let alone put it on her own. It was true that she was in a permanent state of greasy, grimy, moist dampness. But how could they? How could they if they knew of our adventure, of our history? How could they if they how much my hat and I had been through together? So together, my hat and I pressed on for a few more years.
She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. A veritable appendage of my head. Together, my hat and I had more shared life experiences than I have with most people. And saying good-bye is hard.
Like a cowboy who must put down his noble steed, it was time. Perhaps I had been in denial for sometime. Perhaps I couldn't let go. Perhaps I let it go for too long. Perhaps I should have put her out of her misery sooner. How does one determine such things? Ask any dog owner and they'll tell you that you cannot. In an inexplicable moment, you just know. Something triggers it and the compassion to let go overwhelms the compassion to hold on. And it is no easy thing.
She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. And saying good-bye is hard. Together, we rode to Goodwill, the Drive-By Truckers, "Goddamn Lonely Love" on the stereo, windows down, wind in her bill one last time. It was right. And it was right that she should be there to determine and meet her successor. Though no hat "successes," replaces, or fills the void in the heart that your old hat will leave. They only carry on the story, build upon the tradition and legacy left before them.
She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. And saying good-bye is hard. No "thank you" could capture my sincere gratitude. No obituary could narrate our biography. No eulogy could tell the intense feeling of deep affection. May she rest in peace.
In this difficult time of mourning, friends, family, and readers are encouraged to leave comment expressing their favorite Mickey Mouse hat story.
