Meghan Markle, Beyoncé and the Queen Mother all looked great in hats. So why don't I? – Susan Morrison
Now there was a vertically challenged woman who radiated regality in a full-on chiffon Gainsborough cartwheel so wide she looked like she could get Sky Plus. I resemble a sort of trundling Jodrell Bank.
Beyoncé rocks in a jauntily angled snap-brim fedora. I tried that. I glanced in the mirror and saw a wartime spiv looking back at me. I was just one long overcoat away from asking people if they wanted any nylons.
Why not try a cheeky little beret? Meghan Markle emanates chic in a Parisian beret. I, on the other hand, look like the love child of Benny Hill and Frank Spencer.
Don’t talk to me about fascinators. That’s just a hat that lacks conviction. Once sat next to this woman at a wedding wearing a feathered creation sprouting out the side of her head. Looked like a peacock had crashed face-first into her perm. One long feather kept tickling my nose. You never forget the glare of an angry bride because you were the one who sneezed right through the vows.
Anyway it's not my face or my height and the problem doesn’t lie with high-fashion millinery, it's the humble knitted hat. They won’t stay on my head.
They ride up. No matter how hard I pull that hat down, within ten minutes it’s risen up like a woolly souffle. By the time I get to the park it's slithered up to my crown and I look like a knitted unicorn. Eventually, if I don’t watch out, it makes a break for freedom and pings off. The last one wound up under the wheels of a Tesco delivery truck.
Other women swan effortlessly past, hat firmly in place, whilst I spend the whole day wrestling with that woolly monster.
When I was kid my mum made me wear a homemade balaclava. It buttoned under the chin. I hated it then, but at least it stayed put. Might get her to knit me a new one.
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