Each Easter, as I sit in my normal place in the pew and watch the steady stream of familiar faces file in for this most high-church of services, my eyes sweep over the lily-laden steps to the altar, the chicken-wired cross at the entrance of the sanctuary, awaiting the floral offerings of children to be poked through its openings, and then, hungrily, with a hint of envy… the hats!
As a country, American women haven’t regularly worn hats in years, but you can count on seeing at least a sprinkle of them in church on Easter Sunday: tightly woven straw affairs encircled with a wreath of flowers or more sedate felt coverings, punctuated with an elegant, ribboned, bow or feather.
Oh, you women, you petite women, have you any idea how lucky you are? You can don the most elaborate hats you like, as tall and fanciful as those seen in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, with the confident assurance that all will glance your way admiringly.
Alas, for a woman with the stature of Icabod Crane, a hat in church shall never be worn.
Don’t think I can’t hear your inward groans at both church and at the movies when Paul and I seek seats. “For the love of Pete,” I can hear you think. “Don’t sit in front of us- we won’t be able to see any of the movie! Can’t you giraffes find a seat some place else?”