In search of the perfect beret

The years between 1984 and 1991 were some of the happiest my head has ever been, for one reason: those were the years I owned the perfect hat, a soft battered old black wool Basque beret I inherited from a once beloved college roommate (who now thinks I'm the devil, but that's another story). I don't know where she got it or how long she had it before she handed it over to me, but I wore it every day all fall and winter for all those years. I wore it, sat on it, used it as a mini-shopping basket, carried apples and plums in it, wrapped my hands in it when I forgot my gloves, repaired its tattered satin lining and worn leather headband and then, when it was too far gone to repair anymore, carefully and lovingly removed the cracked leather stitch by stitch and replaced it with a new band I made by hand from a heavy (and very expensive) piece of imported silk grosgrain ribbon.

Then, one snowy night in January, 1991, I attended a symposium of Mormon feminist women at the conference center of the big hotel in downtown Provo. I took off the hat and my scarf and gloves and stuffed them into the sleeve of my coat, which I held on my lap for the duration of the boring and overblown presentation. Eventually the lights came back on and everyone stood up to leave. I hadn't walked four steps—wasn't even out of my row of seats yet—when I reached into my coatsleeve to grab the beret et al and found only the scarf and gloves still there. I turned around to look for the beret, realizing it couldn't have fallen more than a few feet away from where I was standing. But it was gone. I spent twenty minutes looking for it and even got them to announce it over the PA, but nobody turned it in. I can only assume that somebody saw it fall and snatched it up before I noticed I'd dropped it. I really hope they're still enjoying it, because I've been trying to replace it ever since and have never found another one that's quite right.

So I've decided that this is the year I'm going to step up the search. I'm not typically all that attached to my possessions, but there are certain things that are important to me, and with those things I'd rather have nothing at all than something that's not exactly what I want. Hats are one example (an especially important one, since I wear a hat almost every day). Bikes, shoes, jewelry, slippers and pens are a few others. Because I'm so picky about these things, I usually have at least one "quest" going on.

One memorable quest was for the perfect bike bell. When I moved to Berkeley in 1988 I bought one that I considered to be the epitome of the perfect bike bell: the Bee Brand Revolving Bicycle Bell. Made in China and decorated with a two-toned metal bee on the top, it came in a cheery red and white box and cost $8.99.

It's a beautiful chrome bell, but the best thing about it is the sound it makes. Instead of just going "ching, ching" like a regular bike bell, this one circles around and around itself inside as if it is singing—"ching-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!" It was the happiest sound ever and I loved it, but as soon as I got it home I started feeling some major buyer's remorse. Nine bucks seemed like such a lot of money to me in those days, and I really had just arrived in California—wasn't working yet, and hadn't brought much in the way of cash or strategy to get any. I ended up selling the bell to my roommate (in fact, the same one who gave me the beret), figuring I'd just go buy another one as soon as I got some income happening.

A couple of months later when I went back to buy the replacement bell, the shop was no longer there. My roommate had since moved to New York, taking her bike and the bell with her. The search began. I methodically visited or called every bike shop in the Bay Area, and then got numbers to call all the shops I could find in California. When I moved back to Utah a few years later I looked in every shop I could find there, too. Finally, in October 1996, while visiting Julie in the East Village—eight years later and an entire continent away—I wandered into a small neighborhood toy store and almost walked right into a huge pyramid of red and white boxes displayed just inside the door. I was so excited that I bought ten of them, just to be able to give them away to friends who knew about that particular quest.

I still have one left, on the Hollywood. Here's a picture of it after it had spent a year or so out in the bushes behind my old house. It cleaned up beautifully with a little Marvel Mystery Oil. (That's the Secret Tater Man in the background, approaching the entrance to his lair inside the hedge.)

Finding the perfect bike bell was supremely satisfying. Finding the perfect bike (the Breezer I bought in July) was even more so, although that search only took two years. Now I have only two active major quests going on—for the perfect slippers (to replace the 12-year-old perfect pair that is finally almost completely bald of any sheep's fleece inside and is starting to lose its tread), and the perfect beret. There are also a few smaller-scale ones: the perfect Indian hoop earrings made from that beautiful dark yellow 24 karat gold, which is almost impossible to find—I will probably end up having these made someday. The perfect face moisturizer, now that I'm 40 years old and suddenly dealing with dry skin for the first time in my life. The perfect leather boots (again, to replace a pair I've been wearing for about five years that are starting to wear out). And finally, the perfect cotton or wool lycra blend footless tights in black and in colors. They must be footless, because I can't stand to wear socks, or anything on my feet at all if I can help it, and if I have to wear socks I certainly cannot wear them OVER tights, or tights and boots without socks. Or boots at all, without tights! Urgh.

It is kind of complicated, sometimes, to be so sensitive and picky about such basic things as socks, underwear, and hats. Luckily there are lots of other important things I'm able to be more easygoing about. Or maybe not so much easygoing, as easily pleased. The other day we found these canned peas that I like for only 44 cents a can (usually $1.49), and stocked up. Then, as if that weren't enough happiness for one day, when I was putting them away I happened to read the label and discovered that one can of these peas contains a full 25% of my RDA of iron, and only 180 calories. Joy!

The boyfriend always teases me that if he didn't cook for me I'd eat nothing but grilled cheese sandwiches and yams, which is not that far from the truth. Every once in awhile though I would probably also eat a can of these delicious peas. Nobody else seems to like them, and it's true that they're kind of mushy, but I don't care—that's how I like them. Hot, with a little butter and a little salt.

Also: last weekend we were in Petaluma shopping for yarn (for the baby bear hat I'm knitting for him for Christmas, but he doesn't know that) and on the way back to the car I decided to take a quick peek inside this cool redesigned junk store I used to really like when I worked over there. It turns out she has a small selection of used clothing in there now too, and I found not one but TWO skirts that I totally loved, and they were both super cheap! Yay, skirts! (This is why I need those tights. Maybe I'll step that one up a notch too.)

Anyway. I don't know where this little burst of enthusiasm came from, but it's fun to catch up with myself like this from time to time.

(One last story: It's not the perfect beret, but I do have this other black hat that's similar, that I've had for about 15 years—I think I got it when I lost the beret. It's sort of like a polar fleece mini-tophat with a three-inch brim that folds up around the bottom of the hat, that has always driven me a little crazy. I mostly just wear it to bed in the winter, to keep my head warm. Last night I was fiddling around with it and suddenly realized that if I turn the brim up on the inside of the hat instead of the outside, it looks a lot more like the long-lost beret it was meant to replace, and is also much warmer because of the extra layer of fabric. Why did it take me 15 years to figure this out? It's so cute now!)

(P.S. I am still on the lookout for just the right beret, however.)