To Buy a Hat

Space is something that the Albertans aren’t short on. Sure, they aren’t making any more land, but for the moment, there seems to be plenty of it round here. It takes at least 40 minutes driving to get from one town to the next. Along the way are spaced out farms and ranches, signs warning that it is 50 km to the next rest stop, and hawks pirouetting in three dimensions. Huge railroad trestles sweep over river bluffs and cutbanks, hopscotching over the roofs of barns and farmhouses. Trees fill the hollows, and only windblown grass and windmills and hold onto the low ridges. Through it all winds the sparsely traveled highways.
I was zooming down those highways in search of a cowboy hat. I wanted the genuine article. Not some gawky tourist bauble, but a working cowboy hat that would keep elements off my head. The little Nissan has a few short comings, but it handles well. I had the windows open to keep cool and tried to follow other vehicles in lieu of a speedometer. I sang all the songs I knew to replace the radio.
In Claresholm, partway to Calgary, I found the store everyone had been recommending to me. It was a big place, almost a department store of saddles, tack, wranglers, and a hat counter. Since it was unmanned, I wandered the store a bit, handling spurs, ogling the chaps, (pronounce the “ch” like you would in Cheyenne, not chuckwagon) and milling about until I saw a likely attendant. She was a pretty young women, and I had held the door open for her on my way in, so I had at least enough familiarity to interrupt her folding the jeans. She smiled and followed me over to the hat counter. I pointed out the brown, wide brimmed hat that had struck my fancy.
“Hmm…ok. What is your size?” she frowned.
“Seven” I ventured.
More scowling.
It looks like we don’t have any more of that one in brown. We don’t seem to have any in sevens in brown at all.”
I was a bit stunned. I had just driven for an hour to get here, and they didn’t have any.
“You don’t have more in the back?”
“No, we sold a lot of hats this past week. Stampeded is coming up.”
She and another saleswomen then proceeded to explain that when a hat company changes colors they have to shut down for several days. They only get hat shipments every six weeks. I Would have to wait six weeks to get the brown hat I wanted. That was out of the question. We were going to be riding on Wednesday. I needed a hat that I could walk out with.
After milling about a bit more, I bought a slate blue silk scarf. At least I could get a bandana out of the trip. And a milkshake, bought on the way out of town.
In the truck on the highway again, in between verses of “King of the Road,” I decided not to give up. At Fort McCleod, I turned east, and headed to Lethbridge, an hour towards Saskatchewan. The mountains now faded completely out of view in the mirror. Winds buffeted the little truck, and I started me repertoire over from the top.
Countless minor rises and half a dozen crossings of the Old Man River later, I saw the biggest railroad trestle yet. Behind it was a low swath of dark trees, telltale sign of settlement. I swept up the side of the bluff into Lethbridge. Not far into town, I noticed a bookstore and pulled in. I hadn’t browsed through a bookstore in the last three weeks, and I couldn’t resist. Plus I figured I could ask about a store that would sell me a hat.
As I walked in, I noticed a rangy older man leaning against one of the windows, engrossed in a magazine. His pale round ten gallon hat had sweatstains round the brim, and his bright yellow scarf contrasted with a scarlet western shirt. As I walked up to him, I noticed he had a cane and a sprawling white handlebar moustache.
“Excuse me sir, I have a question, and you look to be the one ask.” He looked up at me, surprise in his eyes. “I’m looking to buy a hat.”
“A hat, eh? Well…I reckon old George would sell you a hat. You know the old cigar store on third?”
“I’m afraid not, I’m not from around here.”
“Oh really?” He seemed genuinely surprised, and interested. He shifted his cane, leaned farther back to see me better. “Whereabouts then?”
“I’m from Idaho, but I’m working in Pincher Creek for the summer.”
“You can’t buy a hat in Pincher?”
“No sir. I asked around, and it isn’t a big enough town to be overlooking a place.”
“Well, to get to this place, you just need to go out here, and take a right after three blocks. You’ll come to a cigar store, I don’t know what street it is, I never remember their names, but there is a cigar store right on the corner. Turn left and just a few buildings and you’ll see it. Just a real small place, but he’s got lots of hats. And he’ll shape ‘em for you too, make sure they fit just right.” I had noticed as he pointed out his directions on the bench that he only had three fingers, no thumb or index finger on his right hand. I thanked him, and he gave me a broad smile and wished me luck. Off I went to George’s.
I found the cigar store easy enough, parked and started walking. I was pretty sure I had missed the place, or it had moved, when I saw a sign for boots, letters far to small to read while driving by. I opened the door and stepped inside.
“Hello!” called an old man cheerily, and went back to talking with a customer. I looked back into the gloom. On the right of the store were floor to ceiling shelves, stretching back to the far wall, filled with cowboy boots. Up high a row of straw hats hung on nails. On the other side maybe five yards distant were boxes and boxes of hats stacked up to the ceiling behind a counter. Hats on display hung the full distance back to the end of the store. There was a gently feel of dustiness, coming from from the brick walls than the wares. The store was out of another era.
The proprietor finished up his business, promising the hats by the next day for the customer, who promised not to leave Lethbridge without coming back. He was obviously a tourist, and the old man assured him he was making a good choice buying a good hat. As the man walked out the door, George turned to me.
“And what can I do for you today?”
“I would like to buy a hat, and a fellow with three fingers told me this was the place”
“What do you need the hat for?”
I explained that I was working as a cowboy on a ranch in Pincher.
“Will you be working in the winter?”
“Well, no”
“Then you ought to get a straw hat, I have fifteen felts, and not a one has sweatstains, I only wear straw in the summer.” Sure enough, he had a straw hat on.
“Well, I would like to get a felt, something that will really last.”
“Alright then. What were you thinking?”
I told him I would like something with a flatter crown, and preferably brown. I pointed to one hanging up.
“Well, lets try it out.” He carefully took it off its nail, and equally carefully set it on my head. “Oh dear. Terrible.”
I looked at him surprised, and amused. “Really? I liked it. Do you have a mirror?”
“No. But I have a Hutterite television. Go take a look.”
I did, the mirror up front where the light was good. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. The brown wasn’t great, but I thought it was more my shirt than me that was the problem.
“See, it isn’t your color. Let’s try this.” He lifted a pale buckskin hat, swapped it out, sent me back to the mirror. “No, not that one either. Just bad.”
I was confused, I didn’t think either looked too bad.
“Lets try a grey, eh? Oh yes! This is your color…or maybe black…(quickly exchanged the grey for the black) oh yes. Black is best.”
I took a look in the mirror. The hat he had selected didn’t have a flat crown, but double peaks running the length, a style called the cattleman crown, the brim had a hard curl on the front corners. I thought I looked a bit like a country musican, and not much like a cowboy.
“I would sort of like a flatter brim,” I hinted.
“I can’t sell you that. It would look dumb. Your face isn’t round enough, maybe if you had a fat face, but now. He pointed to his cheekbones, his nose, “See here, here,” he pointed to the hat brim showing the angles with his hands, “see this fits.”
I wasn’t convinced, and he could see it. He grabbed a straw hat off the boot shelves, one with a completely flat brim in the back. He handed it to me, sent me to the “Hutterite television”. “See you look dumb. I do the hats for the rodeo queens from Red Dear on south to the states, and you know, it takes such a little thing to make the look smart, to get them to win. I couldn’t sell you a hat with a flat brim. I could do a bit flatter, but I have to be responsible. I’ll flatten if for you because you want me to, but if were walking around Pincher Creek and I saw you with my hat, and you looked silly, well what could I do?”
I had to acquiesce to his expertise and laughing obstanancy. He took the hat from me. “You going to wear it in the rain?”
“I am, when it rains.”
“Well this hat can put up with most everything. It costs $139. Did you come in with a smile?”
I laughed, “Why, I believe it did! I was happy to find this place.”
“Well, since you don’t have fag tags, I guess I can give you a discount.”
“Fag tags?”
“Yeah, those guys that come in here with their eight year old girl haircuts and a mountain goat hanging off their face, well I don’t give them a discount.”
I had to laugh. This nice old man, who hadn’t yet broken his smile was quite a wellspring of culture, to be sure. He gently took my hat, and took it to the back of the store. Behind a small glass counter full of moccasins, leather tools, dirty hats waiting to be cleaned, and chap patterns, he fired up his steam machine. He took the hat between his palms, fingers splayed and not touching the hat.
“Now if anyone ever shapes your hat, and he grabs it like this:” he grabbed the brim with his fingers, “you get your hat back and come here. These are the sensors. See, and I can funnel the steam.” He gripped the hat, and slowly bent brim flat. Then he bent the front corners up. I was happy to have my hat. He pulled the brim liner down, and sprayed the inside with water. He put the hat on my head, pushed hard, and told me to wear it till it was dry.
I paid for my hat, thanked him, and started out the door.
“Wait,” he called. He rushed up, took the hat and bent it a few times around the brim, ever so slightly. He set back on my head, and sure enough, now if fit perfectly. “And it looks good from the back, good with your shoulders.” I thanked him, and head out the doors, back to the road and back to the mountains. Thanks to George I was really ready for the summer.