Under the Wire

An old joke asks the question, “Why do cowboys roll up the sides of their hats?”

Answer: So three of them can sit together in the front seat of a pickup.

I’m pretty sure there’s no truth to that since cowboy hats pre-date the crew cab dually. I wouldn’t have thought about it at all if something strange hadn’t happened many years ago.

In an odd twist of fate, a large city newspaper began running this column. I was their first cowboy writer, I guess, because when the first column came out, my picture at the top of the column had my hat almost entirely cut off!

To a cowboy that is an unspeakable offense. The correct answer to the question I asked earlier may be “we roll the sides of our hats up because it looks cool.” I do know that to a cowboy his hat is his personality, identity and his pride.

In my second column I felt compelled to explain the semi-sacred position a cowboy’s hat plays in his life. First I must mention some cowboys wear caps occasionally. I don’t. It’s OK for them but I feel silly in one. Even those who don sale barn caps occasionally still break out the carefully creased Stetson when they want to be recognized as a cowboy. Also, let me give my definition of “cowboy.” I’m really talking about a rancher, i.e., stockman. Specifically one who raises, chases and makes his living primarily from ... cows. There are other versions of “cow-person.” That is mine. Now, on with my complaint.

When a lady columnist’s picture appears on a column, her entire hairdo is included in the picture. She’s usually a very attractive person and her hairdo, which surely cost a lot to maintain, is always included. No football player’s picture in full battle gear would have the face mask cropped off his helmet. That would look silly. One sports writer has a hat on in his photo and it’s chopped off. It’s obviously not a cowboy hat so that is OK. I’m here to tell you, a real cowboy cares. I don’t care if my rugged good looks are harder to see if the picture is made smaller to include my hat. The truth is I’m not that much to look at but my hat is beautiful!

Let me tell you what constitutes a real, live, fanatical about his hat, cowboy. First, you can’t just wake up one morning and decide you’re a cowboy. You’ve got to have been born cowboy. Your parents had to be ranch folks. Grandparents and great grandparents, too, for that matter. When your family gets together for a picnic, everybody talks about cows, hay prices and rain. Your uncles have to ranch, also. In fact, you maybe have one cousin who went off and became a doctor but everyone else is successful. At a family funeral everyone wears sunglasses, not to hide teary eyes, but to protect from the glare of 100 white foreheads exposed when the hats come off in respect for the departed.

My barber asked me once if my full head of wavy hair was a family trait. I couldn’t answer him because I haven’t seen any of my male relatives without a hat.

After six or eight columns, my introductory trial ran out. I got fired, which is the usual way all my jobs end. That’s OK, though, you’re reading this. That makes me proud and the editor left my hat alone!