In Praise of a Good Hat

I’ve always liked hats.

Maybe I inherited that from my dad. He rarely went outside without one. According to him, it was all about protecting his increasingly bald head. Fair enough. But he also had some wonderfully eccentric choices, especially the fuzzy Russian hats that appeared every winter. Looking back, I suspect my fondness for hats probably started there.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated more hats than any one person reasonably needs. Cowboy hats. More baseball caps than I care to count. Flat caps. Berets. A bucket hat. Fedoras. A Panama. Well…almost a Panama. Even a deerstalker, believe it or not.

Most of the year they’re just hats.

By the time a Missouri summer arrives, though, they’re equipment.

When you’re standing in an open field or on a downtown sidewalk for an hour or two with the sun overhead, a good hat isn’t about fashion anymore. It’s about making it through the painting comfortably enough that you can pay attention to the light instead of wishing you were somewhere with air conditioning.

The easiest choice is a baseball cap. I’ve got plenty of those.

A traditional fitted cloth ball cap feels great in the spring and fall. But once the temperature climbs into the upper 80s or 90s, mine quickly becomes a portable sauna. Adjustable caps breathe a little better, although I’ve never completely warmed up to them. They always seem to loosen at the wrong moment, and the stiff mesh trucker hats have never really fit my head—or my personality.

One exception is a lightweight technical cap I picked up at REI. It’s breathable, feather light, and the bill is a little longer than most, which helps keep the sun out of my eyes while I’m painting. If only the adjustment strap would stay put, I could be very happy with it.

For most plein air outings, though, I reach for a wide-brim hat.

I know artists who swear by cowboy hats. Mine is leather, which sounds romantic until you’ve hiked half a mile wearing it in July. It’s wonderfully rugged and wonderfully heavy. It might make an appearance on a cold winter day, but summer? Not a chance.

I’ve also owned the same felt outback-style fedora for at least forty years. It may be the best-fitting hat I’ve ever had. Unfortunately, it’s also about as breathable as a cast-iron skillet. Wonderful in October. Less wonderful in July.

These days my favorite is a Tilley Airflo Sun Hat.

It’s light, ventilated, and the brim keeps the sun off both my face and the back of my neck. One feature I’ve come to appreciate more than I expected is the wind cord. If I step into the shade or a breeze picks up, I can simply toss the hat off my head and let it hang down my back instead of wondering where to put it.

Is it perfect?

Not quite.

This morning I wore it on my hike while the temperature hovered around ninety degrees. My head was still sweaty. That’s just the reality of being outdoors in a Missouri summer.

There is one hat, though, that still occupies a corner of my imagination.

Earlier this year, while visiting St. Kitts, I wandered into a little hat shop. The clerk handed me a very wide-brim Panama hat to try on.

It fit beautifully.

Looking in the mirror I felt a little like Ernest Hemingway! I admired it, turned it over in my hands, thanked the clerk…

…and walked out without buying it.

I’ve regretted that decision ever since.

Ironically, authentic Panama hats aren’t made in Panama at all—they’re handwoven in Ecuador. They’re famous for being remarkably light and breathable, and every time another hot painting day rolls around, I find myself wondering how one would compare to my trusty Tilley.

Maybe someday I’ll find out.

Until then, the Airflo continues to earn its place atop my head. Like every piece of painting gear, it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to disappear long enough for me to forget about it and pay attention to the light.

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I’m not paid to hype any products incidentally.