diana cowgill

I just spent a good half hour perusing pictures from the Kentucky Derby. I don’t care who won. I never care who won unless I bet on that horse and I won, too. I was ogling the hats, nay, the contraptions, atop the heads of the ladies attending the Kentucky Derby.

These hats are works of arts. Floppy, pastel colored, wide brimmed hats, festooned with festive garbage. They are unwieldy, nonsensical toppers. Outlandishly broad, they blind the wearer.  If her neighbor is not tall, they blind the neighbor as well. These hats have feathers and beads that hang down and jerk about in the air, making their wearers look like goodtime angler fish.

Kentucky Derby hats allow grown women (and the occasional FANTASTIC grown man) to behave like a little kid again. Little as in, I can dress myself now so I choose to wear a tutu and rainboots and my stuffed cat. It allows for whimsy and fun, and good natured self expression. Derby hats are not sexy. They’re not fierce. They are just a delightful tradition that for some reason was never forgotten.