Lids

Hats are a fast and dirty way to make a statement.
A properly selected headpiece can announce, "I support an elitist class system that's outlived whatever claims to relevancy it once purported! " (see this summer's Royal Wedding), or, "I'm not smart!" (see all seasons of Jersey Shore).
This sturdy gem, however, is different. It claims, "I haven't washed my parking lot changing towel in a long time and I don't give a damn."
It warns, "if you're riding a popout, you best be on purple-nurple high alert."
It quietly shouts, "I'm gonna have another Tecate, them I'm gonna think about having another Tecate."
As the latest of my ill-advised forays into merchandise, I present to you the corduroy hat.
It's not impregnated with stretchy shit. It will not wick moisture or make your biceps look huge, and it's not silky-smooth-like-butter right out of the box. Do you have other people chew your food for you, for chrissake?
Hell no, because you're a do-er, and you're not afraid to break in a new pair of Carhartt's, or Levi's 501s, or a friggin' bronco.
And this baby blue bronc requires some breaking in, a little manhandling, and a lot of days on the range before it accepts you as its superior. It wasn't washed with cobblestones, massaged by authentic villagers, or 'distressed' by whatever it is that distresses things.
It was sewn up by snow-and-surf shredder/limited-run lidmaker Tommie at Dedicate in Jackson, Wyoming. We're only doing a few.
What your hat will say is, "I'm not trifled by wide-wale corduroy and, yes, I do know that corduroy is translated from the French cord-de-roi, or clothes of the king. Did you know that badass is French for what's perched on my head?" That'll show 'em.
Because you know that a good thing requires some real work, but once it's broken in, it's all yours.
Unless, of course, someone steals it. Then it's theirs. That's what you get for letting someone steal your hat, dummy.
Email me if you're interested in one. headhighglassy@gmail.com
$25 should do it.