I don’t give a hat

 

There’s a point, after nuturing a straw hat for a year or two, or more, it reaches a state of being worn in. Perversely enough that point usually coincides with the point one’s most beloved on the planet becomes so contrary as to see it as being worn out. She can’t understand how the divinely selected hat on the divinely selected  head has spent months being moulded carefully to take consideration of all the lumps and bumps that come with living within a skull that God designed as a brain helmet.

Okay, my imitation Panama straw hat made in China was never the best on the street, but it was given to me by writer who was once been nominated for a Pulitzer prize. Not that his hat looked like it, he hadn’t done even half the work needed for the job.  I had to use my very own head to mould it into to something more literaturish to deserve the honour of someone once nominated for a Pultizer Prize. It needed to look worn out, and I can wear anything, or anybody, out. Only then can it be put it on ebay to get a price worthy of such a history. It belonged to Don Meredith. Not the quarterback, or the other Don Meredith, but the other one, who actually didn’t get the prize. Hey, that’s something to boast about; not winning a prize. I didn’t get a Pulitzer either. Perhaps I should use that, Don does.

Anyway, when all’s said and done, what can make a bloke look more like a proper bloke than a straw hat that looks as though it’s been in the boxing ring with the great reaper and won.

Copyright © 2014 Bryan Hemming