hat brown grey pharrell in my mind cap strap

It had a leather-braided hatband with diamond-shaped silver conchos. That’s where I saw it: a Stetson made of hardened shantung straw, off-white like a polar bear’s belly. Not too far away was a store that sold hats and boots and denim vests with American flags sewn to the backs. We stayed at a motel that had a sign in the lobby warning, in big saloon-style letters, “We don’t dial 911.” Affixed to the sign was a silver-barreled revolver. I bought it in Fredericksburg, Texas, during a road trip through the Lone Star State with an ex. I’m not a real cowboy, but I loved my cowboy hat.

I haven’t spent time in an outback that didn’t serve bloomin’ onions or wrangled anything more impressive than a desk job with decent dental benefits. I’ve never been on a horse that wasn’t bolted to a coin machine. Of course, a real cowboy would know how to choose a well-fitting hat - but I’m not a real cowboy. I’m not confident it would have stayed attached if I rode a horse out on the ranch or ambled off into a breezy sunset. It sat awkwardly on my head, like a Tupperware lid mashed onto the wrong container. These days, cooped up in my apartment, far, far from the range, I’ve been thinking about a cowboy hat I once owned.

Hat brown grey pharrell in my mind cap strap