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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