The hat is printed in a rather brash pattern. It pulls tightly down over the ears, snug against the nape of the neck, and comes to two points in each corner, like tassel-ended horns. I look as though I'm wearing half a piñata on my head. I try to smooth those tips back like unruly hair, but they tend to pop back up. But on these cold days, it's a damn warm hat.
Three times today, I was stopped and asked about my hat. I've gotten sideways looks before, which is saying something, considering some of the headgear up here - I thought a construction worker had an afro, but it was his black fur hat - but today was different. Today, there was interest.
"Is it warm?"
"I think it's very attractive."
"Does it cover your ears?"
I don't think the hat has suddenly become cute. It's the sign of the desperation that this cold has wrought. The talk of the hat always turns to the cold.
"Sure is cold." -- if ever there was a pointless statement, it's that. But what else is there to say when it's so damn cold?
"It's supposed to snow Friday," comes the next promise. Yes, we wait. Wait for the warming blanket of snow.
I was snuggled up against the bus' heater, defrosting my bones after a ten minute wait outside Fred Meyer, when a tiny voice caught my attention.
"--your hat."
I looked up, and peering over the seat divider like a small bird, was an older Native woman.
"Excuse me?"
"Your hat. I don't usually like hats, but I like yours."
"Thank you."
"Where did you buy it?" There was desperation in her voice.
"It was a gift. You can look at it and see if there's a label."
She examined it carefully, while a man in another seat nodded, and watched the hat twist in her hands with equal lust.
Handing back, disappointed, she said, "Yes, I can't get it here."
"Don't worry. It's supposed to snow tomorrow," I assured her.
Her eyes lit. "Yes. Snow. Maybe it will snow."