Last week I was in New York for the bad-ass Backspace writer’s conference (you can read about all of my non-writer plans here), where connecting with agents and writerly peeps was my priority.

Yet I was also in New York pursuing the object of my obsession, something that has eluded me for years—my white whale, if you will. For twenty years I have searched in vain for a hat that fits my massive melon.*

Whenever I don a sharp chapeau, I look like Laurel (or is it Hardy? Whatever. Neither of their hats fit…). For example:

Me, not getting a new hat for the NY trip.

Growing up in Calgary, I was always assured of two occasions where I could rock a hat: the Stampede (a cowboy hat, for 10 days) and winter (a toque, for 6 months). Neither option offered much when it came to attracting the fellas.

I went to London years ago and sought out Princess Diana’s hat maker to see if there was hope for my enormous noggin, or if it was simply a profusion of lustrous hair covering a normal-sized head that kept me from being a hat model.

After measuring me with assorted millinery tools, he proclaimed—in the snootiest accent possible—“While it is true that you have a great deal of hair, underneath that is an extremely large head.”

Me, around the time of my London trip. I didn't stand a chance.

I probably should have funnelled my hat money into therapy at that point.

Alas, I am home now, and I am still living a hat-free life. I may be the only winter-sport-hating Canadian who is praying for winter, so I can get my toque on.

It's supposed to be in the Rastafarian style, as opposed to a cranial tea cozy.

*Not to be confused with melonS, which despite recent illusionary tactics that would suggest otherwise, remain on the petite side.