Perfectly Proportioned

Yesterday was a good day.

I went for a nice walk with my daughter, bought books and had an epiphany.

We walked to town and I’d forgotten my hat. Since I’ve been walking everywhere I’ve noticed how important a nice woolly bobble hat is in winter. It keeps the cold wind from rushing into your ears. When you have holes in your brain, the wind seems to wend it’s way in one ear, through the Swiss cheese maze and out the other side, leaving you with earache and brain freeze. Hats have always been difficult for me; they just look silly.

The hat I’ve been wearing for the last two winters is a white bobble hat that I’ve made look passable by rolling the hem (do hats have hems?) over twice. Unfortunately, I still look like Pootle from the Flumps in it.

Anyway, yesterday’s walk into town without my Pootle-hat was making me grumpy. My frozen brain was protesting.
“I’m going to see if I can buy a hat,” I told my daughter.
I tried a few on but they all looked terrible. One was so tall the bobble flopped over almost onto my face.
“What are you going to do?” my daughter asked, clearly worried that the choice between walking with a grumpy, brain frozen woman and one that looks a pure idiot wasn’t much of a solution.
I decided not to buy one and I could see her steeling herself for a tense walk home.
We went to the chemist and while she was looking at lipsticks I suddenly shouted,
“I’m going back to the shop. I’m going to look at children’s hats.”

She couldn’t believe that I’ve never thought about it before.
“You’ve always had a small head. It makes sense to get a children’s size.”

I tried several on. Age 5-8 was good but the colour and fit of the age 8-10 hat was perfect.

In the queue to buy the hat I was feeling a bit self-conscious about my child-sized head when I spotted my friend and her recently widowed mum. It was nice to see her out and about. The death of a husband; someone who has been the other half for more than 50 years is such a difficult thing. She had the look, that I remember seeing in my mum, where it’s a struggle to pull your focus away from your grief but you do it anyway because that’s the hopeful human thing to do.

I could easily have got away with it but I’m a blurter.
“Hello. Nice to see you. I’m just buying a teeny tiny hat for my teeny tiny head!”
My daughter told the story and I fiddled with the bobble.
“Hmm. I’m not sure what it says about your brain,” my friend joked.
My brain is often the butt of our jokes.
Her mother said, “It’s perfectly proportioned.”
We all laughed.
“Take it as a compliment,” my friend said.

I will. Who needs a big brain?

I bought the hat, asking for the label to be cut off, so I could wear it straight away.
“Mum! You could have pretended to be buying it for a child!”
The assistant shifted uncomfortably.
“That’s fine. I’m buying a teeny tiny hat for my perfectly proportioned brain,” I said proudly before putting it on and going to buy two fabulous new books.