I've decided I'm on the hunt for a hat.
Now that my much loved mohair grey beanie has become the Ugg-boot of the forehead I've decided to purchase a real hat, one that will complete outfits, frame my face, and on days like today, conceal from the other unfortunate students in my seminar that I shall forever choose an extra hour in bed over basic hygiene of the hair.
The trouble with hats is, that at least 85% of people wearing them provoke an involuntary reaction of ridicule, scathe and haughty judgement from me and I'm not sure if I'm ready to completely discard my principles and become quite that degree of hypocrite just yet. If the truth be told I've wanted a dickhat for years. You know the kind: floppy but not too so, preferably made out some form of felt material, fairly wide-brimmed? Think Sienna Miller's boho heyday, or my personal inspiration: Renee Zellweger as Ruby Thewes in Cold Mountain.
Here's hoping with the whole of the Northern Quarter at my feet and my elusive student loan dangerously tangible and burning a hole in my bank account I can finally acquire a piece of beautifully practical wide-brimmed, black, maybe ribbon-trimmed hat that lands me firmly in the hallowed 15% of the headwear-sporting population who invoke such admiration in me for managing to not look like total dickheads in their dickhats.