Rakish . . .

Hats make a man taller. For a man of average height—like myself—that ain’t a bad thing. But isn't any man in a hat a bit of a poseur? A bit of a tool? An affected, show-offy dimwit? Perhaps, but I've decided that it's different when we become old men. Then, we're given a bit of leeway, a bit of carte blanche, a bit of a reason to cock the damned thing at a rakish angle thing rather than just plunk it on the middle of our heads. I’m an old(er) man now. Seems I’m entitled to a bit of posing, a bit of orneriness, a bit of dim-wittedness, and a considerable amount of not giving a damn. I drive slow; deal with it, punks.

Young men? They should fear and avoid the affectation. Don’t wear a fedora, don’t grow a goatee, don't sport a vest. Leave those varied accoutrements to older men; we can pull it off without fear of starting a fight in the local pub (we have other ways of doing that).

So, I’m now an old man in a hat, an accessory that I'm taking back from urban hipsters and campus doofuses, from too-young generations playing at costume-party dress-up. I wear this hat to keep the sun out of my eyes and the cancer off my face. I wear it because I'm a man of the open West, a man who tends a ranch, a man who spends his days in the sun. I wear it because my dad did, and I remember him for it. When I take his old Stetson down off the peg, it still smells of him. May someone care as much about my old hat one day. In the meantime, I’ll try to do as well under my hat as he did under his.