By Leatrice Spevack
Not so long ago, a student stopped by my office to deliver a letter regarding my column; a letter that my editor deemed unprintable. In his opening paragraph, he wondered whether I chose the topics for my columns “randomly from a hat” or if I “actually put some thought towards the subjects (I) excoriate.” Excoriate, indeed!
In point of fact, I do pick my ideas out of a hat; specifically a blocked felt affair draped by black ostrich feathers. Certainly not, heaven forbid, from a baseball cap, such as the one that clown was wearing.
Baseball caps.
When did this become chic—and more significantly, why? These hats were designed to perform a function and they perform it well: to shield players’ eyes from the sun. Function, not fashion. Get it? They certainly do nothing to enhance one’s appearance.
The onset of puberty ought to portend the relegation of the baseball cap to the backseat of adulthood, along with elasticized waists and Barney undershirts. Get with it, girls. If your guy opts for a cap, be prepared—for you have chosen a boy rather than a man. A man prefers a Panama. He favors Fedoras. A man will understand your perfect Pillbox with a half-veil. A man will not arrive at 2:00 a.m.—”for you”—in a Moosehead cap.
Ask yourself how many baseball caps have come your way free of charge—won from a scratch ticket or handed out as a promotional exercise by one corporate crook or another. Honey, hand me a keychain or a mug instead, because where chapeaux are concerned, you get what you pay for. And I drop a hundred a hat.
Let’s look at it this way: doesn’t it tell you something that the baseball cap has the unique distinction of being accessorized, not with netting or pleated satin bands, but with antlers, snouts and slogans?
In bygone days, hats had panache. For males, whether you were a gentleman or a gangster, they were de rigeur. For a woman, they were the original mood elevator. Listen up ladies, it still works. Take a pass on Prozac and buy the bonnet.
Hats once boasted their own code of etiquette. They provided the bearer myriad unspoken sentiments. They had silent voices. Baseball caps have the tonality of a woman in the latter throes of labor. They are inelegant and ineloquent.
Baseball caps are the headpiece of aging New Democrats and balding baby boomers. They are the worst cranial calamity since the advent of the Mohawk. They are haberdashery with the “dash” removed.
What’s that?
Bad hair day?
Try some shampoo.
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