One of my earliest memories is being 3 or 4, riding in mom's Datsun in winter, with my knit hat on. It was scratchy against my forehead and pressed my ears against my head, muffling my hearing. As snow melted in the car's warmth, little spheres of water beaded along the hat's edge and tiny rainbows fringed my view. I enjoyed this effect; but I did not like hats. As a perspire-acious person, a warm person, an itchy person, a self-conscious and not naturally fashionable person, hats have always been a source of compound discomfort.
Among the many joys of my current job is not wearing a hat in the kitchen. Our mixer might not always get full power, I might pause with floury hands to clap the life out of a dozen mosquitoes, but I'm not getting forehead rash from a sweaty cap.
But I have to concede there is one activity for which I willingly don a brim. Kayaking along our shore, east and west in the near-endless afternoon, I more thoroughly enjoy the craggy curving coast and boundless forests when I can minimize squinting. I was also pleased to find during yesterday's rain that my hat bill protrudes enough to keep my hood up and my glasses mostly dry. I felt like a huge dork, and the loons were surprised enough by my sartorial choices to stare back at me for some minutes before diving, perhaps to chortle over the awkwardly maneuvering paddle-creature.
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