The Hat Ladies

The Hat Ladies

Hats are unusual among clothing in that they have evolved from useful to useless. Not so long ago, a hat was something to keep the sun off or the wind out; somewhere along the line, aesthetics divorced functionality and eloped with madness. This unholy union produced the monstrosity that is known as the Ascot Hat. Even the most conservative of estimates would gage their weight at approximately three kilograms, of which two and three quarter kilograms are “flair.” Articles of flair include, but are not limited to: pins, buttons, feathers, plastic fruit, ceramic birds, functional miniature music boxes, etc. Not present: any semblance of sanity.

Fortunately for humanity, the Ascot hat has fallen out of favour. Once a mainstay of society events, it is now worn almost exclusively by potential heirs to the throne of England and cults of fun-loving middle-aged women. Now, what the Queen should choose to put on her head is no business but her own—she’s on the money; she can make the rules. The bog-standard, overly chipper retiree “out on the town” cannot gaze sternly at me from within my own wallet, however, and is up for critique like the rest of us.

Hence, I feel it must be said: the Red Hat Society is terrifying. They descend on tea rooms and coffee shops, all purple plumage and crimson hats, cackling and screeching and sipping Earl Grey like whimsical vultures. As they chatter about current events and future outings, I’m often overcome by a strange sensation—a lump in my throat that you can’t dislodge. Afterwards, no matter how much MTV I watch or expletives I utter, I can’t shake the sensation that someday I may be sitting in that position, drinking that tea... Wearing that wretched Ascot and appreciating life as a woman approaching fifty. Approaching fifty.

Any petulant adolescent will speak to the fact that getting old barely registers on our collective radar screen. Five years is the “far-flung future,” and ten years may as well be a millennia. Planning extends only as far as a potential major for an undergraduate degree, and that’s already unusually well-prepared.

It’s uncharacteristic of my demographic, then, to declare something that won’t be applicable for thirty years, but nevertheless: regardless of my age, I will never wear an Ascot (in red, or any other colour.)

Perhaps a fedora.