Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
I was walking past a vintage clothing store the other day, one of those places that smells like your grandmother’s attic had sex with a thrift store, and saw they were selling old hats. Beautiful ones too. Fedoras from the ’40s, cloche hats that survived the Depression, a bowler that probably witnessed a murder.
And I thought: Headspace would be a great name for a vintage hat store.
I got excited. Started doing the mental math. I could quit my day job. Nobody’s dream involves what I do for a living. I’d open Headspace right here in Virginia. Convert the barn. Trouble McFussbucket wouldn’t mind sharing her territory with a boutique retail experience. I’d knock out a wall here, add some track lighting there, install reclaimed wood shelving that cost more than the hats. I’d source hats from estate sales, flea markets, the estates of recently deceased eccentrics. Curate them. Give each one a backstory. “This trilby belonged to a vacuum salesman who peaked in 1957.” I’d play jazz. Sell overpriced coffee. Become one of those small business owners who posts inspirational quotes on Instagram about “living your dream” while privately weeping over quarterly tax estimates.
Wait. I’d have to buy a barn first.
The Reality of Opening a Vintage Hat Store
Karie would definitely kill me now. We’d argue about overhead costs and whether vintage hat retail is a sustainable business model in rural Virginia. I’d defend my vision with increasingly desperate spreadsheets that now include a six-figure barn acquisition. She’d point out I can barely run the farm, let alone a storefront with actual real estate. I’d say the pig practically runs herself. She’d say that’s not the point. She’d say the point is I’m fantasizing about buying agricultural structures to sell dead people’s hats.
But I could still see it. The grand opening. Local press coverage. “Former TV Writer Trades Scripts for Haberdashery.” I’d give tours. “This is where I keep the bowlers. Notice the feng shui.” Within six months I’d be featured in some listicle about quirky Virginia businesses. Within a year I’d be bankrupt, but spiritually fulfilled, which you can’t eat but makes for a decent obituary.
Then I thought: Wait. No. That’s disgusting.
The Used Hat Hygiene Problem
Because here’s the thing about hats. They’re intimately acquainted with someone else’s skull. Their sweat. Their dandruff. Their existential dread about the mortgage. That Stetson absorbed decades of some other human’s cranial secretions, and now you want to plant it on your head like you’re not essentially wearing someone’s discarded scalp fungus?
I won’t wear used shoes. This is a firm policy. You can offer me vintage Air Jordans signed by His Airness himself, and I’ll politely decline because I don’t know where those feet have been. Or worse, I do know. They’ve been in those shoes. Marinating.
I once ran into Dave Matthews smelling a pillow in an antique store in Charlottesville. True story. He was giving it the full forensic investigation, three deep inhales. His kids were mortified. I must have made a face because he looked up and said, “You always gotta smell a used pillow, man. Always.”
We got to talking (he never realized it was me). He agreed with my used-shoe theory. Said the bowling alley spray was doing “weird things” to his feet. Wouldn’t elaborate. I didn’t push it (But check out his new album “Under the Table and Bowling.”).
When “Headspace” Takes a Dark Turn
But back to Headspace.
What if it’s not a hat store at all? What if Headspace is where morgues and autopsy facilities store, you know, heads? Like a warehouse. Climate-controlled. Organized by cause of death. “Excuse me, do you have any blunt-force trauma in a size seven-and-a-half?”
Or worse, and there’s always worse, what if it’s a serial killer’s lair? Some creepy dismemberer luring victims with wordplay. “Come explore my Headspace. It’s very grounding. Very meditative. There’s no escape from your thoughts here. Literally. Because I’ve removed your legs.”
They’d definitely have used shoes there. Organized by arch support.
Probably used feet too.
I’m never shopping for vintage hats. That’s my takeaway. Dave Matthews can smell all the pillows he wants, but I’m drawing the line at pre-owned headwear.
Some things shouldn’t be shared. Hats. Shoes. Headspace.
Key Takeaways
- The author dreams of opening a vintage hat store called ‘Headspace’, imagining the charm and stories behind each hat.
- However, they confront the reality of owning a business and acknowledge the challenges involved, including a significant investment.
- The piece humorously explores the hygiene issues of used hats and reflects on the intimacy of wearing items once owned by others.
- The author considers dark alternatives for the name ‘Headspace’, such as morbid connections and unsettling scenarios.
- In the end, the conclusion is clear: some items, like hats and shoes, should remain untouched and not shared.
