1-21-25
Hats are a prison for hair, a jail cell for my Jew-fro, which strives to touch the sky. Hats are a straightjacket to my occasional bouffant, a style that just can’t cope with any encumbrance. We’ve all said it: If I were a benevolent dictator… Well, for me, there’d be no more hats. Burn them, like they did the bras. If there’s any room left after the D-Cups, toss those beanies and berets, those fedoras and flat caps into the “Freedom Trash Can.” Yeah man…Let those follicles fly.
Hats are a prison for hair. That’s my stance. Just don’t tell my dad (bald), my brother (baseball nut), or the guy who sells hats (successful retailer). Remember Mr. Clean? That guy looks like he could wipe the floor with me. Let’s not mention it to him either--my master plan to abolish all hats. Let’s keep that fantasy to ourselves, eh?
Hats are shackles to the glorious backcomb. And yes, I’ve been to a shrink about all this --it doesn't help. But really, I’m coming along. I understand the value of hats for those who need them. Hats, for certain types, are like filtered screens that defy the naked truth. They are instruments to maintain the mystery, allowing the question to hang in the air--maybe he isn’t bald?-- inviting false speculations, unchallenged by truth: I bet his hair is luxuriant, well styled, and quite impressive.
Hats are cranial horrors. As an acronym, HATS would be Hellish Atrocities That Stink. Hats are worse than hoods --they are falsehoods. Not exactly bald faced lies…More like masks to conceal. Or, with zero embellishment, HATS.
James Callan is the author of the novels Anthophile (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and A Transcendental Habit (Queer Space, 2023). His fiction has appeared in Bridge Eight, BULL, House of Arcanum, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, Aotearoa New Zealand. Find him at jamescallanauthor.com.