THE GENTLEMAN’S IDENTITY

A hat is leather or felt or denim worn on the head. I got mine at a clothing store some years ago, when my hair was long and glossy and needed to be cut. That was my style then, needing to be cut. It still is, but hats are much more my style. I don’t care much for anyone’s style. I never have. I do care about hats. I got mine mass produced in newness and uniqueness and like nobody else’s, though I know so many more exist.

My hat was lost. I did not want to get a new one, even though it was lost for quite some time. I found a store that had my very hat, the very same style, grey hound’s-tooth extra large felt fedora, and I almost got it—didn’t—it wasn’t the same. No hat is the same. It is the shell of my head, it is my hair’s hair, it is a part of my identity that was cut off with my long hair when I refused to think and move. I would rather have a lost identity than an adopted one.