So as part of my ongoing wooing of the Girl from the International Division, Dale and Chip have insisted that my wardrobe include a hat. “A fedora,” they opined. “Or perhaps a trilby.” They took me to their perennial haberdasher and made me buy a hat. “Make it a nice emerald green. Or perhaps forest.” I picked out an amazing Tyrolean hat that looked like something my dad used to wear when I was young. “You’re utterly hopeless,” they said to me. “But at least it’s a hat,” they replied to each other.
When my date rolled around last weekend, I arrived at her house to pick her up. I sported my new Tyrolean in majestic forest green, with a lovely gold cord and a cuckoo feather. As soon as she opened the door, she told me to take it off. I reluctantly removed it, but asked why.
“I … we … you cannot wear that hat out with me.” I didn’t understand. She continued haltingly, “It is … means … um …” She whispered the rest in my ear.
“Oh dear!” I replied. She nodded, biting a finger nervously. I hid the hat under the seat of my car. and resolved to take it back for a refund on Friday.
Our date went well enough. We had a nice dinner and watched a movie together, and then I took her home. The best thing of all is that I found another hat. And it proves I’ve got a great sense of humor about the whole thing. It’s a mooseketeers hat, with big horns on the top. I know she’ll like it and have no reason to be concerned about it. Thank goodness.
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