Mad Hatter

A quick story before I go do my part of the work to prepare the yeshiva for shavuos:
I finally walk into the store that I'd spent over 5 years of religious fervor preparing to enter and sidle up to the counter to be greeted by a peyos wearing Dean Martin. As unusual of a sight as this should be, I'm neither stunned nor confused as everyone in this store is some version of Dean Martin. To my right, an older Dean Martin... Left, 13 year-old Dean Martin... Behind me, Dean Martin in a long coat arguing with, confusingly... younger Dean Martin in a shorter coat over how much money to spend. Maybe it was the sea of fedoras, or the fact that I'd hiked from my yeshiva in heat that one would assume He'd spare His Chosen People, but I've forgotten about Ol' Blue Eyes so my rat pack allusions begin and end with Dean Martin... Which works out better anyway because Dean and Sammy did the best duets and I'm here to assemble the last bits of the token rat packer's costume. I ask the first Dean Martin for his best hat in my best Ivrit b'vacashah, and with a smirk he asks me for my hat size in yiddish accented English. I do not know my hat size, I do know my head is big so I just say gadol and hope that he comes back with something big enough, sparing me the indignity that kept me out of the toy hats they used to pass out at Burger King when I was a slightly less than kosher kid. The third one fits. But it's not what I was looking for. It's a little more "man in poncho dances around it while mariachi band plays in the background" than I'd like so I ask for something smaller and tells me that what I'm holding is a "good hat... the best hat" and is super reluctant to show me anything else. I've been in Israel more than 2 years and I'll never understand this facet of Israeli society; shopkeepers regularly tell the customer what is good for him, and will disagree to the point of fighting. I don't want to fight with Dean so I just feign walking out, and he returns with a smaller model... But it's still not what I want, so I walk out for real.
Two days later I'm back, but it's a different store, a different Dean Martin and I'm armed with one of my gurus in my quest for spiritual enlightenment. The first time I went hat shopping I'd violated one of the rules of yeshivish life, ask your rebbe about everything; which is obviously why I was rewarded with gornisht. This time I ended up with a hat that is a little less sombrero and a little more jazz and my Rav and I had a long conversation on the various fashions of hats through the ages (I want to bring back Yeshivas Chofetz Chaim's style of white suits and straw hats in the summer).
I won't admit that being the proud owner of a fedora makes me feel more religious, but I will admit that I did my best "soft shoeing it while singing jazz" impression when I got home.

Labels: Dean Martin, Hats