Because they are stupid.
I say that because I am jealous. I can’t wear hats because my head is too big. Essentially, if you have a big head, and big hair to try and disguise it, it’s virtually impossible to find a hat big enough (apart from Beanie style hats, which barely count) that doesn’t turn you into some kind of caricature of a cartoon character or unattractive rock star.
That’s just a fact.
So there’s two things conspiring to keep the hat down, as far as I can tell. The increase in the size of people’s heads (literally and metaphorically), and the increasing popularity of ‘haircuts’.
Now of course, hair has been been cut for practical reasons for a long time, and we’re certainly not the first generation in history to find that ‘haircuts’ are the order of the day (even ignoring the fact that the current downward trend has been on its way for at least three generations).
Back in the day haircuts were more like hats. Cavalier wigs or pompadour beehives. Elaborate constructions ferried around by the increasingly strong neck muscles of the aristocracy.
If you ignore the plight of the poor, we’re talking about some seriously good times.
But nowadays the haircut is small and delicate. It takes hours each morning to establish the perfect look, and constant foppish flicking back to ensure you can still see ahead of you.
Hats become a befuddling factor beyond the capability of the average haircut to sustain.
Despite their objective beauty.
Of course, this difficulty is meaning a trend for the super cool to try and wear a haircut and a hat at the same time. Breaking the last taboo. Unfortunately, in order to match the asymmetry of the haircut, they pop the hat on the opposite side to the swoop of hair. This creates a balance that distorts any excitement that the initial imbalance might have created.
This is not good news for the hipster involved.
So it’s time to make a choice, haircut or hat?
I currently (as always) opt for a compromise of sorts, as with my current hat issues (massive hair, massive head, the former hopefully concealing/distracting from the latter), I know I can’t manage proper hats (until I can afford a decent milliner, or persuade Adam to take up a course).
So I sit in a halfway house. Building structures out of my hair in honour of Madame du Pompadour (the classiest hooker in history). My weapons are ties and fascinators and bows and ribbons and glitter (not really, but I really did enjoy Sunshine on Big Brother last night). Anything that can go into my mass of curls to build some kind of illusion of structure and shape.
I can’t bear to cut my hair, so I need more constructively hirsuite pursuits.
So I live in a halfway house. Occasionally aiming for hipster asymmettry, occasionally toying with hip hop fueled anarchy, occasionally trying for ascot inspired elegence.
I wish I could wear hats.
Illustration by Maria.