Another dreary Tuesday morning with the mist hanging low over the hill opposite the house but I’m cheered by a new hat I’m wearing. The station is busy and I’m surprised to see there’s no one else sporting some head gear. After years in the fuddy-duddy wilderness, hats seemed to have made a pleasing come-back amongst less than thirty-somethings. Mind you, I love where I live but it can be a bit of a style vacuum.
I must confess to a bit of a hat habit. It sort of came from nowhere, a Tori Amos tour beanie, probably, which was cemented by a pretty green silk and velvet affair with acid green (fake) fur edging; a Russian affair that went well with a black velvet Anna Karenina type coat. After that it was a slippery slope, a brown monogram jacquard Fendi trilby, then a vintage green felted wool trilby. More recently, a grey wool baker boy hat, plain and characterless, made beautiful with the addition of some brooches and a hat pin. Then the Tracey Emin cotton cotton summer hat with MICE appliqued across the front accompanied by a pin badge of Docket, her cat.
Then I truly fell in love, with a Stephen Jones black leather military beret worn like Samuel Jackson. Lastly, a purchase at the weekend of a red and black herringbone wool baker boy; floppy and nicely pleated. I must stop really, but they take up so little room and when I have spent no more than £15 and usually far less, well it’s hard to feel guilty.
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