Copyright 1993(c) IT'S ABOUT THOSE HATS By Dick Burkhalter I collect hats; silly hats, useful hats, weird hats, anything that expresses my feelings at the moment, protects my balding pate from the elements, or otherwise strikes my fancy. My taste in hats is catholic and, to the casual browser, without rhyme or reason. A genuine French beret that I bought in Paris shares space in my closet with a propeller beanie and a baseball cap with a Budweiser can sticking out of the front of it. Many of my hats are nothing but blatant advertisements for some place or product. Some are absolutely incongruous on a 55-year-old man with graying hair. I've been told I look rather distinguished, (obviously by someone who hasn't seen me in my Goofy hat from Disney World with it's long ears hanging down next to my cheeks and the two buck teeth dangling from the bill.) People who know me well enough to know of my collection have sent me hats they felt fit my rather strange personality. Ordinary strangers tend to hurry away, shooting strange looks over their shoulders, when I ask their pre-schooler where he got that fine specimen he's wearing, and offer to trade something like a toy boat for it. My wife, Lucy the Shrink, tends to treat me as if I could use a bit more counseling when I bring home a particularly tacky or insipid example of the hat maker's art. Being Jewish, she also views such expenditures as frivolous and not in keeping with her own philosophy of investing rather than spending. Of course I, a gentile, remind her that if it wasn't for us, nobody would buy retail. I also feel a need to assert my identity from time to time, in a mature adult fashion, of course. Wearing one of my most offensive hats in public while in her company is very effective, if not in getting her approval, at least in getting even. Some of my hats have thus taken on the status of POW's (that's Personal Offensive Weapons). When I had a photo studio, I often used the hats as props, but the real reason I collect them is that I'm just plain nuts. About hats, anyway. I used to buy hats in every country I visited in my travels, so I have a bowler, a kepi, a beret, a turban and other assorted headgear of the "memento" class. I stopped doing that when my collection began to get out of hand, overflowing from my closet into other rooms of the house. It's also difficult to pack many kinds of hats without damaging them, and their weight adds to the pounds I have to lug around during a trip. So now I mainly take still or video pictures of intriguing hats wherever I find them, be they in shops, sidewalk souvenir stands or, in some cases, even on the heads of their owners. The object of my desire may be something as elegant as a formal top hat, (which is not yet in my collection), or as inelegant as a Styrofoam fake-straw boater with a red, white and blue band from some long since forgotten 4th of July picnic, (which is.) Sometimes, the urge to add a particularly fine specimen to the collection coincides with the need to unload excess foreign currency (which I refer to as my Monopoly Money, and also collect), and overpowers what little common sense I still possess. Such a sartorial convergence occurred recently in the Duty-free shop of the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv, while waiting for the plane to bring us home to Los Angeles. In this case, it might have been triggered by the sudden realization that there I was, at the last moment of the trip, and despite my vow to bring home some trinket for each of our children and a grandchild, I had not bought a gift for my son, John. We had a few extra shekels left over, more than enough to add to the Monopoly Money collection, and were discussing how to best get rid of it. A couple of businessmen sitting nearby overheard our conversation and reached in their pockets and unloaded their excess shekels on us. Off I went to see what I could find. While browsing around the Duty Free shop, I suddenly became aware of a small, heavily accented voice. "Buy me, already! Be a good boy, make your mama proud of you! You haven't even bought your own son a present to let him know you were thinking of him! For shame." I looked around for the source. Being deaf, it's hard for me to identify where sounds originate, so that took some doing. Finally, on a shelf, almost at eye level, I spied two white cloth golf caps. I was about to turn away, thinking I was still looking in the wrong place, when one of the caps slipped slightly, revealing the flag of Israel silk-screened in bright blue across the top. I stopped and stared, wondering if I could possibly need yet another souvenir hat, or if John, having no connection to Israel aside from being related by marriage to an extended family of Jews, would appreciate it. I was about to turn away and continue my search when the voice spoke again, louder and more clearly this time. "You have just enough money for two! Nothing extra to buy! No charge to try me on! Go ahead, see how I fit!" Embarrassed, I looked around to see if anyone else had heard the voice, but the clerks were busy serving other people, unmindful of my dialogue, so I gingerly picked up the hat, put it on at a jaunty angle and looked in the mirror conveniently placed close by. Hmm. Not bad. "See, it fits like it was made for you," came the voice, now from right over my head. I took off the hat and looked at the price tag. Sixteen shekels, about five bucks and change. "A bargain! Where in America can you get a hat for five bucks, I ask you? A Quarter Pounder With Cheese and a Coke is what you get for five bucks in America," coaxed the voice. "And no calories or cholesterol in a hat, besides." I counted the money in my hand. Just 33.40 shekels. "A perfect match for your budget, too!" Yeah, perfect! But silly. A waste of money, really. Yet they would pack flat and not add much weight to my already too heavy backpack. Still, did I really need another hat? What would Lucy say? I could just hear her now, saying in her best professional psychologist tone, "Well, if you must. Just don't expect me to pack them in my carry on luggage!" "Think of it as a mitzvah, your contribution to the Israeli economy," countered the voice. That clinched it, and I bought two, one for John and one for me. As I was leaving the shop, I heard the voice again, emanating from inside the plastic shopping bag I was carrying. "Your mama will be proud of you. So what if she isn't Jewish? All mamas are proud when their sons do the right thing! You don't even have to show Lucy until you get home. Hurry, she's in the Ladies' powder room and you can sneak them into your backpack before she gets back." "But she'll ask what I bought." "Tell her it's a surprise. Wives love surprises. You don't have to tell her it's not for her. Tell her that later, when she's jet-lagged and she won't remember." "But Lucy always remembers." "But nothing. You did good. Trust me!" I quickly stuffed the hats deep inside my backpack and discarded the bag. Not a moment too soon, either, as Lucy was coming toward me and our flight was being called. Sure enough, as were getting ourselves situated on the plane, Lucy asked me what I bought and I told her it was a surprise. She asked no more questions. As I stashed the backpack in the overhead rack and closed the door, the voice spoke again in a loud whisper. "See? Would I lie to you?" Post Script: We arrived home after a 14 hour flight, wiped out, jet-lagged and bleary eyed. On the airport bus to home, Lucy asked, "Did you ever remember to get something for John?" "Yeah, I'll show you when we unpack later," I replied, a bit uneasily. There was no response; she was already asleep. Post Post Script: Three days later, I drove over to John's house, taking our gifts with me. Ashlee loved the carved wooden camel Grandpa brought her from Cairo, my daughter-in-law, Stacie, loved the jeweled bracelet from a bazaar in Aswan, and John cracked up at the hat. He put it on, I put mine on, and Stacie snapped a picture of the two of us together making goofy faces. "Hey, let's go to lunch at McDonald's. I'm absolutely in need of a Quarter Pounder fix!" I said. "We can wear our hats and get some laughs out of the people there." "Well, Pop, I'll go for the McD's, but I think we might want to leave the hats here. Have you noticed that many of the people in this neighborhood are Middle Easterners? And there are no synagogues around?" John responded. "Oh, yeah, OK," I replied, taking off the hat. As I walked out the door, I heard the voice call after me, "Smart kid you have there. You sure he's not Jewish?" END