HEY! THIS IS FUN! HIS NAME IS ALAN AND HE’S BOUGHT A GIRAFFE!

How could a simple hat evoke such contempt within me? This is coming from a male who doesn’t really care about fashion and will buy nothing but plain, unprinted clothing from Cotton On just so he doesn’t have to make a decision when he opens his wardrobe in the morning. And don’t get me wrong, I believe they are suitable in certain situations; it’s just that those times are now 60 years behind us. They should remain in that bygone era, when men would smoke cigarettes and drink scotch on the rocks in their office before coming home to a roast dinner and sex in the missionary position with their wife or mistress.

In those times, Fedoras were matched with formal attire and looked fitting. Unfortunately, these days they are commonly paired with a button up Billabong shirt and New Balance joggers. Whenever I see a fedora I just assume the owner has either contemplated getting a My Little Pony tattoo, can recite every word from an obscure Japanese anime or has been struck with early onset balding.

When I see these social outcasts in public I do my best to grasp why they wear prohibition-era headwear. Is it a sign of authority, marking out the Alphas in a pack of betas? Is it meant to channel Indiana Jones or Mad Man-esque manliness? If only I was with Mr. Jones during the escape from the Temple of Doom when he dropped his hat in the infamous closing stone slab scene. I would have told him to leave the fucking thing behind and inadvertently create a better world where fedoras are only worn for period drama shows.

But why do fedoras grind my gears? Maybe just like my disdain for Radiohead, which I’m yet to find another person who shares in that particular loathing, it could be just a temporary outlet for my suppressed hatred. At least until Snapback caps start pissing me off more.

Written by Rhys Smith.

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