By Jess Hardin
I read an article recently that discussed the history, significance and emotional issues surrounding the Middle Eastern head scarves that cover a woman’s head. Some women protest their right to exercise what they see as a God’s will, protected from the gaze of lustful men. I can vouch for the men, but there also was a point made by other women that the practice was dehumanizing and a means of control. The line that stuck in my head was one that compared the cultural significance and emotional appeal of the Burkha head wrap and face veil to the Austrians’ passionate attachment to the leather breeches and suspenders they call Lederhosen, and a Westerner’s strong feelings about his cowboy hat.
I also can vouch for the hat thing. That’s not to say that I don’t have all manner of nefarious associates who are more likely to be wearing what we used to call baseball caps, but now baseball players wear mandated plastic helmets for protection and these beanies with stiff bills are more often found on heads bobbing in pickup trucks, mechanics scooted under a truck belly or hip-hopping white boys who seem to have forgotten the bill was meant to shade their eyes.
These practiced friends and antagonists don’t seem to share my resistance to wearing day-glow lettered logos for Caterpillar tractors or monopolistic seed distributor, nor do they see the irony of some global conglomerate getting paid six bucks for somebody to advertise their products when they should be paying by the hour for the forehead advertising space. Worse yet, out in these parts we like to tip or doff our hats to a person or idea we honor and respect, and it doesn’t have quite the same effect when you tip a cap. And I have yet to hear a gal all excited about how a feller looks wearing a sun-shade beer ad, saying stuff to her girlfriend like, “that cap makes him look so manly, so outlaw, so sexy!” Besides, when it comes time to dress up every six months or so for a trip or dance, even those fellows dig in their closets for their cowboy hats.
I’ve been wearing these emblems of independent thinking and outdoor living off and on since I was 4 years old, sitting with cap guns drawn in front of a 12-inch black-and-white television. I’d be laughing at the antics of Gabby Hayes, singing along with the Sons of The Pioneers – and listening closely to the well-meaning advice of my hero Roy Rogers: “Honesty is its own reward,” “Courage is doing the right thing even when you’re afraid” and “Remember, little Buckaroos, if you don’t do it, whose a-gonna?”
You might have seen the improbable style kids were given back then: a brim laced with shiny patent leather, the felt dyed improbable colors like red or turquoise blue, a tight-fitting stampede strap to keep them flying off if the middle of a backyard ruckus or rug-rat stampede.
Nowadays we can go into any Western store and choose from literally hundreds of different configurations, from a short-brimmed Winchester to the 10-inch crown of the Tom Mix, creased in any of 30 or more styles with pithy names like “The Gus” and “The Laredo.” Oddly enough, in the Old West, no one would have dreamed of bending and creasing their fine new hat! If it ended up sporting a “Montana Pinch,” it’s only because more than one Montana roper accidentally crushed his while trying to hold onto it in the wind! Many a hard-working dome was shaped not with a steam machine, but cattle hooves and New Mexico storms.
As a history buff, I tend to lean toward clothes typical of the real West of yesteryear. Holsters were high riding or crossdraw prior to the Buscadero drop-loop models created for movie and TV, period boots like my Texas Cavalry pair were square toed until the advent of rodeo, and I saved for two years to afford a custom made, authentic-looking 1870s hat. Like the majority I’ve seen in original period tintypes, it has a high, round crown and a wide, flat brim. It’s reminiscent of John B. Stetson’s original prototype, with a sizable brim to shed water and afford maximum shade from the sun, and a tall crown that’s cooler in the Southwest heat. Picture braided Indians in their stiff reservation hats, a newly elected Morgan Earp, or that crew of ice cream shop bullies getting whooped-up on by the stylin’ Billy Jack.
Inside the band, it’s stamped not only 7 5/8 (evidence of a swelled head) but also “Custom Made For Jesse Hardin” (indicating how much I had to spend). If you’ve ever looked at the silk liner of a Stetson, you’ve seen their trademark art, a cowpoke using his hat to take water to his thirsty horse. In a single painting, we find all the mythical symbols of the archetypal West: independence and resourcefulness. Wild open spaces. Consideration and compassion and a love for animals!
Hats off, I say, to anyone fulfilling their personal sense of responsibility and honor, whatever form that might take. Hats off to heroes of every position or persuasion, for being willing to act on their beliefs. Hats off, even, to each difficult lesson, tragedy and heartache. Hats off to the old ways, intemperate Mother Nature and good relationships that last. Hats off to every passing lady, if you please … and hats off to old John B.
Jess Hardin lives near Reserve. Mr. Hardin’s opinions do not necessarily represent the Mountain Mail.
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