I promise this entry was coherent in my head when I started writing it.

Everybody who thinks I have a large head be advised, it’s actually a medium

I went hat shopping today. I was out to get a black fedora for my Halloween costume. Got to hat store, gleefully found a black fedora, went, “Oooh, let’s put it on and become instantly six times cooler.” Put hat on head. Look in mirror. “Why does my head look misshapen and squashed?”

Apparently fedoras, even when they are black and awesome, just don’t work on me. Instead I got a “leather gambler” (I don’t know, but that’s what the lady said it was) and I have dubbed it a fedora. It is black, and leathery, and looks very nice. It doesn’t precisely work for my Halloween costume, except that I have declared it to be a fedora and nobody would dare argue with this assertion. Right? Right?

Also, the store carried no red fedoras. This was sad.

Whilst in the hat store there was a middle-aged gentleman point out different features of the different fedora styles and urging his friend to buy one. “I’m trying to turn them into a fashion statement and make them trendy again, so I wear mine to church every Sunday,” he says.

“What’s this?” quoth I. “Make them trendy? Fedora’s are the most fashionable hats around, all wise and awesome people know this. Verily, I am crestfallen to discover mine own head ill suited to aesthetics of such a mighty and awesome hat as the fedora.”

“Seriously?” the guy says.

“Totally. Thank the redhat people.”

“Sure,” he says, and he walks away.

Yeah, he had no clue what I was talking about. Did I not communicate clearly enough?

So, the brim on the hat I did get doesn’t block my peripheral vision at all, and so far I’ve not had too much hat hair. Of course, I literally just had my hair cut, so maybe it’s feel particularly obedient. My hair becomes practically subservient when I go, “Split ends? Split ends! Blashpemy. That’s four inches off the bottom, five in the front just for good measure.” Ahem, yes, never had split ends at all even a little until I moved to Chicago. I haven’t quite accepted them as a fact of life yet.

Speaking of Chicago, imagoingtoCHICAGO. ImagoingtoCHICAGO. ImagoingtoCHICAGO. I’vebeensleepingbadlyanditmakesmehigh. Ihaveareallycoolhat.

And to end with a PSA: When it’s late on a Saturday night, you and three of your buddies are hanging out in your car in the downtown area of a little pissant wannabe city where everybody gets smashed and wanders the streets like some zombie horde of Chicago homeless, and a girl in four inch heels walks by, commenting loudly on her ass and tits to your buddies is not a good idea. You see, she’s armed with four inch heels, and you’re strapped into place in a car. Doing the commenting in Spanish does not get you off the hook because, at least in some cases, said girl is bilingual in “go fuck yourself, assholes,” as she beats you senseless. If, through some small miracle involving not wanting to upset the roomie’s mother she opts to ignore you instead, whistling is tantamount to begging to have your car firebombed. She’ll still be pissy about it at least a week later, and the statute of limitations on assholery isn’t up until its victims decide they aren’t still pissy over it. Moral of the story? High heels make me grouchy.

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