How to Become the Kind of Person Who Wears Red Hats
You know you want to...
Masquerading as Florence Welch can change the way you live. I tried it in 2015 and I've never been the same again.
It started with an invitation to the office Christmas party. Come dressed as your favourite performer, they said, which is how I found myself in Accessorize trying on a wide-brimmed, red, felt hat.
"That really suits you actually," the friend accompanying me remarked, "you should wear that normally."
"Oh no", I quickly corrected her, "I'm not the type of person who wears red hats."
However, moments later, I was a person who at least owned a red hat.
The date of the party arrived. I dropped by. My fabulous rusty-coloured wig and my wide-brimmed red hat could not disguise the fact that I was not Florence Welch. I was Rahma Dutton, who neither celebrates Christmas nor drinks alcohol. The open bar held little attraction and I shan't comment on the state of my former colleagues after just the first hour of free alcohol. Let's just say, it wasn't difficult to duck out early, unnoticed.
The red hat remained in my possession, discarded thoughtlessly at the bottom of my wardrobe. I noticed it there a week or so later and my words came back to me.
"I'm not the kind of person who wears red hats"
It begged the question; are the kinds of people who wear red hats born that way? And if they aren't, how does one become one?
I owned a red hat after all. Could I just wear it? Could I start today? I was meeting friends that very afternoon. The hat would perfectly complement the black and white geometric patterns of the cardigan I was wearing. I seized my opportunity.
It was a slightly windy day. The hat was utterly impractical, blowing off my head suddenly at unforeseen moments whenever a gust caught me under the brim. I walked down the road self-consciously, holding on to the hat with one hand and imagining how silly I must look.
There were periods of stillness though, when the damn thing stayed on my head. From the outside, in those windows of time, I think I probably looked exactly like the kind of person who wears red hats, and despite the discomfort and inconvenience, there was something about it that felt exciting and frivolous and fun.
The next weekend I went up to Leeds, from London, to visit family. It was winter and it could be felt more harshly up North. My aunt was wearing a bobble hat with a cute giant pom pom. I commented that I liked it and, being the generous woman that she is, she gave it to me. It was only on the train home the next day that I realised. It was red.
My flirtatious experimentation with a red-hat-wearing identity seemed to be taking form as something more solid. I was now the owner of two red hats, both of which I wore, out and about, not as a costume, or disguise, but as me.
Rahma.
In a red hat.
Quite quickly, with a tiny initial effort and some serendipitous events, it had happened. I was the kind of person who wore red hats. I still am, despite the fact that it's been eight years and I don't own any red hats anymore. She lives inside me somewhere, Red Hat Rahma. A little bit frivolous, a little bit fun and not afraid to be seen.
Is there someone you’re becoming? Or someone you want to be, but don’t know where to start?