The fedora on your head is called by some a monstrosity of nostalgia played out in felted wool.
To you it speaks of who you used to want to be and still admire.
Some say it really measures your insecurity at size seven and one quarter.
They say it is a message of desperation.
It’s a fat and bearded set of same-faced judges who laugh and laugh at your hat.
The judges call the fedora the “bro-crown.”
The kings of sameness with their self-verified expert credentials call the fedora the “bro-crown.”
They call it out over video games and obscure bands no one knows except the members of other obscure bands.
Not one of those musicians wears a fedora to the stage.
You decide to remove the hat.
Everyone suddenly loves you.
It’s a mission now to spread the love.
You decide to knock the hats off of everyone you see.
It’s your job to go farther than a sneer now that you’ve seen the light.
Everyone bare-headed, no one in a fedora, no one hidden from the world and wind.
You are shot and killed by someone resentful of the action.
You are mourned, considered, reviled, canonized, and eventually buried in your hat.
It’s how people knew you best.
It doesn’t matter that you changed near the end.
They chisel it like a historical accusation on your tombstone.
You lie in the grave spiteful in your fedora.
You understand now you can’t win in this life with or without the right hat.
You don’t win until the next life comes around when one day someone sees your crown on that stone.
Someone will take you then as a model.
Someone will buy a fedora in your name.
It’s the same hat but no longer a monstrosity of nostalgia, the same old kings will say.
The difference is that on the new someone they think it looks pretty good.
It looks best on stage.
It looks fresh as a baby.
It exudes and expresses confidence.
It crowns a chosen musician’s head pretty damn well.