It may be as a protection from sun and wind, and it may be as a lingering rudiment of that ancient psychology of sex which gave to the man his distinctive head-dress, and, owing to which, he still feels less a man when hatless. “Where’s my hat?” is the frantic demand of the small boy. Be he never so much in a hurry he does not feel truly himself unless that inconspicuous, small, often ugly and shabby, but indispensable mark of masculinity, is on his head.
Boys in their continuous scuffling “play,” that innocuous infantile survival of the ancient sex-combat, are particularly merry with one another’s hats. To snatch off the other boy’s hat; to hold it, hide it, trample it; is a favorite form of amusement. The boy thus rudely unhatted must fight for his lost distinction, and does so cheerfully. In the attitude of children toward their clothes we may all too plainly see the proof of the long dominance of the sex motive in our attire; the girl child, trained, flattered, and punished into a premature care of and pride in her over-feminine apparel; and the boy child, needing neither praise nor blame to develop his perfectly natural masculine vanity in the garments which proclaim him Man. His are, to be sure, of a far ruder and more serviceable sort than hers; but his joy in them, his irrepressible pride, is not based on their practicality so much as on their proof of what he fondly imagines to be sexsuperiority.
In the matter of hats, the scope of masculine expression is not large. A hat he must have, of severe and simple outline. In it he may express, (a) sex; and (b) wealth; also, to a very limited extent, personal taste. Those who dwell in detailed admiration on the dress of men speak mainly of the cut and line of their garments, the taste shown in those minor accessories of socks, ties, and a man’s scanty but impressive jewelry.
When they refer to his hat there is nothing to gloat upon but its newness, both in style and recent purchase. The top-hat has always its clear distinction; the crisp straw in summer, the hard hat with the latest roll brim—there is little to boast of. The man, in selecting, tries to choose one suited to his particular style of feature, and sometimes succeeds. So choosing, he generally remains constant to that choice.
We must remember that a man’s sex-value does not lie in his beauty so much as in his purchasing power and in the general qualities pertaining to masculinity—or supposed so to pertain. With the woman it is widely different. While every article of her attire, from the innermost to the outermost, is modified not only by sex-distinction but by the constant fret of change in order to please and hold the varying taste of the male; the hat more than any other article shows this double pressure.
With our naive effort to preserve by force the artificial distinctions with which we have fenced off one sex from the other, we consider it quite incorrect for a woman to wear a man’s hat; for her merely to try one on is supposed to give him the right to kiss her. But still, though for riding costume, yachting costume, and such limited purposes, we do find women wearing men’s hats, or hats frankly mannish in style, we do not, for any purpose whatever save those of roaring farce and coarsest circus humor, find men wearing women’s—to make themselves look ridiculous.
When a woman puts on her husband’s silk hat or “derby,” soft felt or stiff straw, she may look “mannish,” but she does not become a laughing stock. When a man puts on his wife’s “Easter bonnet,” big hat with flowers and ribbons, or small hat with some out-squirt of stiff or waggling decoration, he looks contemptible or foolish. There is real reason for this. The man’s hat, whatever its fault, has a certain racial dignity. It is, primarily, a covering for the human head. It is designed to fit that head. It is simple and distinct in outline, restrained in ornament. None of these things are true of the woman’s hat, which, whatever its attractions, is utterly lacking in that main attribute of racial dignity. It is not, primarily, a covering for the human head. It is not in the
least designed to fit that head. It is not simple and distinct in outline; and—need it be said?—it is not restrained in ornament. A woman’s hat may be anything—anything in size, in shape, in substance, in decoration. Its desirability is based on three necessities; first, it must be “stylish”; second, it must be new; third, it must be “different”; not only different from the previous one, but different, as far as is compatible with style, from the hats of other women. We might add, as a remote fourth, a faint preference for a hat which is “becoming.”
To discover a hat which suits the face of the wearer, which is light and easy on the head, and to wear the same sort of hat as long as one has the same sort of face, would surely be a reasonable thing to do. That is it would if the purpose of a woman’s hat was to make the wearer comfortable and to express personality. Nothing is farther from its purpose. The first, last, and ever dominant necessity is to express as loudly as possible, not the “eternal feminine,” but that abnormal pitiful femininity of ours, a femininity which has surrendered its solemn grandeur of womanhood, and put on, jackdaw-like, the ostentatious plumage of an alien creature.
Study the grave sweet face of some eternally beautiful womanstatue, as of our so familiar “Mother of the Gods,” miscalled the Venus of Melos. Put upon that nobly feminine head some “cute,” “too sweet,” “charming,” “latest thing,” and see how utterly out of place is such monkeyish display on real womanhood. “Yes,” we admit, “but women don’t look like that now. I’m sure Dolly Varden looks just too sweet for anything in that hat.”
A pretty child—of either sex—looks pretty in almost anything. Some fresh-cheeked, curly-headed boy may look as well as his sister with a frill of lace and roses around his face. But a grown woman, a woman fit for motherhood, is no longer a child. Her place in life is as gravely important as her husband’s. Even a young girl, with wifehood and motherhood before her, has a potential dignity, a high responsibility awaiting her, beside which all this capering and fluttering of gay signals is pathetically ignominious. We have enough instances before us, in marble and canvas, in tender madonnas, brave-eyed saints, great goddesses, to show this truth. We have behind that the whole long story of unfolding life on earth, the female earnest and plain, the male skipping and strutting in gay adornment. Even the male mosquito has feathers on his head—not the female.
In ordinary life we have the well-known fact of the lasting beauty that shines in such severe simplicity as the white face-bands of the nun, or in many of the neat and unchanging caps worn by Puritans, Quakers and others. We even know, in that remote shut-off compartment of the mind wherein we keep our articles of faith, that “Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.”
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