Many of you who have camped with me, have commented on my former cap. One that was so greasy from my self-basting noggin that it remained moist through entire winters of hook hung disuse. I loved that hat. Yet . . . well . . . I willingly cast my trusty old chapeau, so full of my genetic material that it was more like a parasitic twin than an article of clothing, into a blazing funeral pyre after laying ownership to the magnificent cap pictured above.
It's a super old fitted cap of canvas wool and a little simulated rabbit with just a teasing edge of a manufacturers label stitched into its innards.
I'm not going to josh you about not knowing what this hat is really designed for. I know it's for the safety and style conscious deer hunter who wants to be safe in the woods and who also wants to look unlike a dufus while walking down the street.
However, I have dubbed this hat my drinking buddy for it serves an additional, more beneficial service, when perched upon my head at the local watering hole. Just a quick, upfront conversation and demonstration with the barkeep makes both of our jobs easier. He can be made instantly aware of my need for a cold one with out frequently asking and I can keep my machine gun pace of drinking up unmolested.
It's quite simple. My hat maintains it's placid green hue while I am sated, consuming a barley pop. But, once I fear that I may be getting a bit too close to the bottom of the bottle, the cap takes on an enraged, thirsty crimson color, alerting the barkeep that the fragile peace of my end of the bar is in jeopardy should I not find myself in posession of a replacement beer, tout de suite.
I love my new hat.
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