Chris came home for a surprise visit on Thursday. When he arrived, I went out into the hall to greet him and was almost brought to tears by the fact that he wasn't wearing a hat.
Chris is a trucker. For years, he has worn a baseball cap...outside, inside, rain, snow, sun, Christmas, Easter, birthdays, and I have tried not to be annoying about my wish that he'd give it up. I really have nothing against people wearing hats, although baseball caps aren't my favourite. Actually, I don't mean a baseball hat, I mean a hat like a baseball cap, with a logo, usually truck-related. This is a photo of him, with Phoebe, last summer. It was a very typical picture, down to the socks and cigarette pack.
On that visit I may well have foregone my usual, not-very-subtle suggestion that he needn't wear a hat, but probably not, even though I know that his primary reason for that long-ago choice was because his hair was getting thin on top. Where was my compassion you say? I really believed that he would look just fine.
Anyway, his arrival with a bare head was such a surprise, and such a delight, that I'm sure I wasn't subtle in mentioning it, with both my hands on his beard, yelling, "oh my God, you're not wearing a hat!" He just gave me a "what a silly mummy"look and calmly told me he hasn't worn a hat for a couple of months, and we went in the house---both of us looking bemused.
And, unbelievably, hat or not, no one took any pictures, that day or the next day when we had a roast beef and yorkshire pudding dinner with as many of the family as could be there. Irony becomes me, though.