Dispatches from the High Desert—Part 1

The Hat Situation or, How I Came to Terms with Personal Shade

While Anne McClard takes a well-earned break this week from this space (refilling her pen, rearranging her metaphors, possibly just napping in the sun), I’ve been handed the keys to her site. When Stephen Colbert goes on vacation, you get reruns. Here, you get me. A temporary stand-in. The literary equivalent of “and now for something completely different.”

Don’t worry, she’ll be back next week with the next exciting chapter of

“Sunny and Ahmed.”

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So.

I’ve never worn a hat.

I mean, maybe as a child. Maybe there’s a photo somewhere of me in a knit beanie or one of those floppy cotton things that makes toddlers look like Victorian orphans. But as an adult, I’ve been hatless. Religiously, defiantly, almost spiritually hatless. I went through Minnesota winters without hats. Not even a North Stars cap. Not even a beret.

It’s not a philosophical position. I’m not anti-hat. It’s just that hats don’t work for me. I have curly hair, somewhere between “distracted composer” and “feral poodle.” Put a hat on that and you get Bozo the Clown meets 1993 Lollapalooza. Not in a good way. Not in a retro way. Just in a please-don’t-look-at-me way.

And then there’s hat head. My curls rely on air and entropy. Once you flatten them, it’s over. One minute I’m whimsical and free. The next, I look like I just lost a fight with a swim cap.

But now I live in Santa Fe.

And the sun here? It doesn’t flirt. It interrogates.

You step outside and the sun immediately wants to know your intentions. “Who are you, really?” It’s high, judgmental, and indifferent to your self-image. It doesn’t care about your hair. It will crisp your cheeks, bleach your brows, and remind you that you are not built for this altitude.

Back in Portland, sunglasses bounced between ironic and aspirational. I wore them maybe three times a year. Here, they are survival gear. I lost mine within days of being here and immediately felt exposed. Not metaphorically but literally, retinally. I hadn’t developed a sun routine yet. I was still solar-naïve.

Hat’s harder to lose than sunglasses, and a lot cheaper.

So now I need a hat.

Need is a strong word. Let’s say: strongly encouraged by atmospheric conditions and dermatological realities.

Of course, I can’t just wear a hat. I have to find a hat. A style. A persona. I’m not a dad-on-a-boat, so the dad hat is out. I’m not a sports guy or a rancher. Cowboy hats are for tourists from Houston. I’m not ready for the full “retired engineer in a ventilated wide-brim with SPF 300” hat either. That’s not a hat. That’s a confession. That’s surrender.

There are hat shops here. Real ones. Fancy ones. At least three. Not the gas station variety. These are boutiques where the hats have names and histories. You don’t buy one. You adopt it. You pledge loyalty. You finance it. Some cost more than minor surgery. They’re hats that expect you to have a backstory. If I go in, I know what’ll happen: I’ll end up being talked into some “heirloom-quality” felt monstrosity with a vintage Navajo hatband and a secret pocket for peyote, with a name like The Desperado, and a whole new identity I didn’t mean to take on. And then I’ll hate it. And wear it once. And spend the rest of my life explaining it.

And still. I keep looking. Slowly. Cautiously. Like someone circling a cold pool. I peer through windows. I study the brims. I pretend I’m just admiring the architecture.

Because maybe this isn’t just about a hat.

Maybe it’s about change. About vanity shifting into something else. About realizing that change doesn’t ask permission - it just shows up, like sun damage. And that you can either fight it or . . . you can try something new on your head and see what happens.

I’m still holding out for a miracle hat.

One that doesn’t make me look like I’ve joined a political cult. One that doesn’t flatten my hair into a mat of regret. One that doesn’t put my soul in airplane mode. One that feels, somehow, like me, even if it’s new.

Or maybe the hat isn’t the problem.

Maybe it’s me, learning to live where the sun is sovereign, the mountains are always watching, and even a simple hat asks: who are you becoming?

And all I can think is: hopefully someone with better shade coverage and far fewer existential dilemmas per errand.

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