SUPERDAD EATS HIS HAT

ABOUT, WELL, WINTER HATS THEMSELVES

This winter, my latest fashion accessory is a warm hat. Those who know me may suspect that’s a setup line to a joke. For most of my four decades-plus walking this earth, hats and I have had an, um, “on-again, off-again” kind of relationship. (Insert snare drum and groan here, sure. But really, please stay with me.) For many of my teen years, and well into college, my eyes and crown were regularly well shaded, thanks to the ball caps that were quite often perched atop my noggin. It was the best I could do. My admiration and envy for the men who could pull off a proper Stetson cowboy hat has never wavered. (As my moniker indicates, I am far too suburban.) And I’ve written previously of my interest in fedoras — but I am told (mostly by my wife) that they look funny on me. But ball caps? Now we’re talking. In any event, they largely were left on the top of the dresser or in the closet on weekdays, and far too many nights and weekends, thanks to that pesky “dress code” mandated by the companies who paid the bills and apparently frowned on ball caps in the office and on assignment.

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Through my 20s, though, no vacation destination was complete without exchanging a picture of Andrew Jackson for a commemorative addition to my collection. (My favorites? A snapback emblazoned with NASA from Cape Canaveral, and a black number with white trim with a red embroidered “NC,” on the front, from the Outer Banks of North Carolina.) But then something strange happened. The caps began to collect dust altogether as middle age crept in. Some of my formerly beloved caps began to, um, shrink as my waist size expanded, and the hair that had once been lush and wavy became progressively … less lush and wavy. Now, I understand hats should not be scapegoated for my genetic failings. Countless articles on the interwebs confirm this to be so. But regardless of who or what is to blame, it soon became imperative to allow my hair to blow in the breeze for as long as nature would allow. Then, one winter day, one of those breezes was quite cold. Living my entire life in northern Illinois, that was nothing new. But what was new was just how cold such a breeze could feel moving across my steadily revealing scalp. And so, a new relationship was born. It wasn’t one I ever expected. For most of my younger years, I’d rather freeze than be caught in a stocking cap. (I exaggerate, but barely.) But there I was, a few days later, standing in front of a store display, intentionally picking out what was to become my first in a series of new stocking caps. Now years later, from mid-fall to mid-spring, these caps go with me everywhere. If not planted atop my head, you’ll usually find one tucked in my coat pocket. But this winter, that relationship with my haberdashery has gone to a new level. Forcing me to dig a little deeper into my wallet than has been the custom, the latest addition to my winter fashion line (see, that is the earlier referenced joke) quite simply brings comfort every time I pop it on. For those unfamiliar with the sensation (I believe the Danes call it “hygge”), the oversized black knit cap, with its gripping Thinsulate insert, all but wraps the entirety of my globe in a warm hug. It stands as a rude gesture to Jack Frost, a bulletproof helmet of sorts against his whipping, biting breezes, challenging him, again, to do his worst. Some might say this new attachment to the hat is a sign of maturity. Others might say it just means I’m getting old. Both may be true. Beyond that, though, the hat strangely stands as a visible sign of a new personal commitment of sorts, an evolving outlook on life. It doesn’t really matter what it looks like. Or what others think. It’s simply recognizing, as my life runs ever on toward autumn, the season now demands brushing aside the vain hubris of youth to attend to more important things: health, family, friendship, spiritual and mental peace, and leaving a legacy that just might inspire my kids and others, somewhere, to take charge of their lives and try to do better. How that’s expressed may depend on the day. And today, amid this always lovely northern Illinois winter, that means pausing at the door to pop on that hat, wondering why I hadn’t done so sooner.

 Jonathan Bilyk writes about the triumphs and travails of being a modernday dad who legitimately enjoys time with his family, while tolerating a dog that seems to adore him. He also doesn’t really like the moniker “Superdad” because it makes it sound like he wants to wear his undergarments on the outside of his pants. (Also, the cape remains on back order.)

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