I first saw it in Clerys of O'Connell Street, hanging on dispaly in the hat department - a lonely sight in a way, only a shadow of its true self without a suitable owner of distinction to bring out the full surge of its potential.
Its smart, sharp brim suggested it would suit a man who had to make quick decisions - or perhaps know how to get out of trouble as quickly as possible. The two-inch band which marked its circumference looked like a kind of intellectual seat-belt that would allow its proud owner to be able to think about anything he wished in mental safety and comfort.
Then I noted the careful indentation at its crown with the two side creases between its centre point. The contemplative forest-green colour seemed perfect for a man like me who daily has to navigate his head and his life around many problems. I bought it.
Since then the hat has had a great assortment of interesting experiences. It could tell many stories about survival, mishaps, threatened loss of life. It could testify how freely dollars can disappear in a town such as Las Vegas, like water from a free-flowing tap, disappearing down the sink of free enterprise. It could give evidence that in the taxi to the airport, with only $10 to spare, you realise how lucky you are to be getting out of that town alive.
Fisherman's Wharf
The hat could smile knowingly, if it was capable of smiling. It has spent a restless night wandering around Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, searching for solace until the dawn broke over San Francisco Bay. It has escorted me like a loyal Labrador friend on the eerie journey through the desolation and deep loneliness of foreign city streets. It rode a streetcar in New Orleans and had its photograph snapped outside the local jailhouse with its proud owner beaming a smile of freedom and flashing a peace sign against the backdrop of the sheriff's department's police cars.
It has flown over Phoenix, Arizona; Atlanta, Georgia; Houston, Texas and walked in the rush hour through the busy hustle bustle of Manhattan.
Nearer home, it has survived comments from passers-by in the streets of Dublin, from "Nice hat", "That's a cool hat", "Hiya cobber, you from Australia?" to "John Wayne - I like your hat," and "Are you Clint Eastwood?"
I felt like saying, "I'm more like Jessie James", but silence is sometimes the perfect loud retort to ignorance.
The hat has, I confess, survived many weekends of excess in the pubs. Temple Bar. It wants a peaceful life, but nothing is certain, and I believe gales are forecast and even war is on the horizon.
It has been unknowingly the closest witness to my most private thoughts and deepest wishes, a worthy ally of hopes, fears, dreams and aspirations. If it was called as a witness in a court case it could make a very eloquent character witness.
"Only some people can get away with wearing a hat - fair play to you", was a common remark. Does this suggest that hat-wearers are a breed apart? Would it be possible to form a be-hatted community of latter-day musketeers who would scorn all acquiescence to the predictable and obvious whims of fashion and commerce? A kind of mad hatter's tea party - ultimately a celebration of sanity by keeping a small space for people's right to be different?
Free thinker
Is headgear a fair guide to its owner's cast of mind? Is there a free thinker under the beret of a Frenchman? Is it a sign that he is not a Le Pen voter? Is every Stetson wearer a George Bush supporter, a kind of republican rodeo fan? Is the chap with the bowler, the pin-striped suit and the briefcase, sitting on the Tube reading the Daily Telegraph, on his way to work in a stockbroker's office in the City? Is he an arch-conservative who grows jingoistic after a few gins? Does he wax lyrical and sentimental when he recalls in the cricket club the great days of Margaret Thatcher?
The beret, the Stetson and the bowler, like the flags on a ship they denote identity and nationality. But sometimes they are may also be a decoy, saying one thing but meaning something else, a mischievous ploy to keep secrets well hidden. A hat can be a poker player's friend, after all, keeping his eyes under cover. When he is ready to show his hand, then, like a painful and unwelcome crick in the neck, it suddenly hits you that you've been cleaned out.
Closing time
Anway, I've now rejoined the ranks of the bare-headed. Here's ... how it happened. In a dimly lit basement in the early hours, just about closing time, I was sitting on my own. So was she. She was all of 22 years of age, with lips like Brigitte Bardot, a fringe like Liza Minelli and a heavy spray of lacquer in her hair. She chirped like a happy sparrow: "Can I try on your hat?"
"I'll make you a present of it," I offered in the spirit of goodwill and generosity, as she tried it on.
"No, I can't take it," she replied.
But I insisted - for at that moment, the hat seemed filled with the residue of all my worries. Give it away to the young lady with the lacquer in her hair and I could wave them goodbye.
Her face brightened up with a chandelier smile as she walked out into the night to get a taxi home, wearing my hat. So, I had another drink from the friendly barman and I thought to myself: if she only knew what that hat and I had been through.