HEADLINE: A new hat, a fresh persona. Can an outfit modification help find love?
“Wait! Wait!” I shouted as I ran down the dock at Sunset Beach.
The ferry captain waved and said, “It’s okay; I see you.”
I squished between the other passengers on the boat as I caught my breath. It was my first time navigating the ferry system to Granville Island, and I didn’t want to miss the sailing. Look at me, I thought, staring out the window, a prairie girl at sea.
Granville Island was (and still is) a magical place for me. It’s a mini-island with abundant offerings, from beverage sipping and people-watching to grocery shopping and everyday exploring. It’s the ideal spot for almost anything, including the best location to find a new hat.
One autumn Saturday morning (a decade or two ago), I ventured to Granville Island to meet my friend, Cherie. Standing on the dock waiting for the ferry was now a routine activity, and on this day, the harbour water was calm, glistening in the morning light—a brilliant day to hang out with a friend. So when I opened the doors to the Public Market, the enticing aroma of baked bread and freshly brewed coffee made me do a little dance.
After a long and leisurely breakfast, we sauntered to the Net Loft building, browsing along the way until we hit Edie’s Hats (now called Granville Island Hat Shop). I don’t ordinarily wear hats because my head is too small for most. But this reluctance to wear a head covering was about to change. Cherie and I were like two girls playing dress-up as we tried on every hat in the store. Eventually, I settled for a soft pink and cream herringbone Cabbie Cap.
Little did I know that I was not only buying a new hat, but I was also leaving with a new me.
I never enjoyed dating, but I felt like I needed to step up my game by the time I reached my mid-thirties. First dates were always the most complicated, and I wanted to be prepared just in case someone decided to call. But what should I wear? If I were ever to meet the man of my dreams, I needed to figure this out. So before going on an actual date, I thought I would put my outfit selection to the test. That’s right—me, my outfit, and my hat were ready to research the possibilities.
Before I even evaluated my ensemble, I had to select the best location for the event. I poked my head into various café locations around the city, trying to decide which neighbourhood felt best. West Van? No, too many gray-haired folks. Kits? No, too many younger-than-me types. South Granville seemed best, and I returned to the neighbourhood on one nippy Saturday in October. As I walked down the street, I felt tall, I felt hip, and people seemed to be glancing my way. I thought—it must be my hat.
While I stood in line at the local coffee shop, preparing to order my tall, decaf, no-foam latte, I spotted two comfy chairs by the front window, one of which was vacant. Perfect spot. I grabbed the Globe and Mail newspaper and sat across from a thirty-something guy. Dressed in a lightweight fall jacket, casual jeans, and black and white high-top converse, he looked like he had potential, but he was busy texting on his PDA (yes, that was the precursor to the smartphone). And in the twenty minutes we sat there, he didn’t look up once to acknowledge my company. How rude, I thought. Not a significant loss—he wasn’t that cute anyway.
I settled into my soft leather chair, pulled out my newspaper, and pretended to be busy with the business section while eavesdropping on the couple directly behind me. I was so occupied trying to hear what the couple was discussing that I almost missed my texting seatmate’s departure.
A vacancy! Now the excitement begins.
I placed the newspaper to the side, picked up my journal, and pretended to be deep in thought but was really paying careful attention to who might join me. The coffee shop door opens, and several potential candidates walk in, but they don’t stay. There was a soft hum to the morning conversations, and for a few minutes, we remained in status quo, and then the door opened again. Who is it, I wonder, as I wait for a face to appear. My excitement drops the moment I realize it’s a local fellow with no fixed address. He is wearing six or seven coats, several pairs of pants in varying lengths, big black boots with missing shoelaces, a frayed touque, and carrying a tattered black and silver to-go mug.
Assuming he was on the move, it didn’t even occur to me that he might take a seat, but guess what? He did. He slumped into the cozy leather chair opposite me. I squirmed. What should I do? Get up and leave? He is definitely not dating material; besides, I was here first. I start scribbling the following poem in my journal:
Where is he?
They say he is looking for me,
but I tell you, I have searched.
I have climbed mountains, hiked for days,
and paddled way out to sea.
Are you sure he is looking for me?
I continued to stare down at my journal, but I could not focus. I’m uncomfortable, and the smell from his clothes is sharp. I hear him sip his drink, and I can tell he is staring at me. I reluctantly lift my eyes to meet his gaze.
“I like your hat,” he says in a deep baritone voice.
“Thanks,” I say timidly. I am surprised at how lovely this stranger’s voice sounds.
“I hope you have a splendid day,” he responds. And with a big grin, he gets up and walks out the door.
I smile, look down at my journal, and write: I love my new hat.
