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I’m not a hat person. Was. I was never a hat person. Until recently. And not by choice.

I grew up avoiding hats at all costs. Let the rain mat my hair. I wasn’t wearing a hat. Let frozen ears lay bare. No hat on my head sat. 

Bottom line, I was too vain for hats. Had to keep the hair looking good. So even in sub-zero temps, I would walk into school with a non-slurpee induced brain freeze and proudly assert a teeth-chattering, “Sorry, I don’t do hats.”

Fast forward a few years. Okay, more like a decade or two. My head is cold. And when I’m old. A hat is sold. And truth be told. I thought I was bold. When in fact, I was just…stupid.

Hats keep your head warm, and if you find the right fit, you can shake out that hat hair when you arrive indoors and go on your pretty little way. So now I own several hats. The first I bought when Hubs and I lived on the sun-soaked island of Dominica, after I discovered that hair does not prevent sunburn—on your head. And when you’re on the water, even these tan, Indian cheeks burned a bright shade of red I didn’t know was possible. Ouch to the ouch! Still have my faithful blue sun hat that I wear whenever I kayak during warmer temps.

And for winter days, I own several simple pull over hats. Red. Lilac. Sea green. And the one on my head right now is brown with a snowflake border.

But why are you wearing a hat right now, you ask. Aren’t you indoors, sitting at your kitchen table, typing up this blog?

I’m so glad you asked. Answer: It’s cold inside too. Truer answer. My hat is my helmet. Protecting my head from my hands. Remember a few weeks ago when I told you about the root of the matter? Well, in my addictive state of searching my scalp, I discovered something. A tiny, almost microscopic mole.

So little, the dermatologist I accosted at a party just laughed when I pulled her aside to a quiet corner and showed it to her. “That tiny thing. It’s nothing dangerous. Just leave it alone. You can hardly see it.” 

But I can feel it! [And yes, next time, I’ll make an appointment.] But over the past weeks, we’ve moved from failed attempt to failed attempt to cure my magnetic fingers. That search out that miniscule deviation at the back of my head. I started with the coconut oil cure. Thinking, if it’s doused, I won’t want to get my fingers all greasy. Fail. Ended up washing my hands all day to keep my computer keys from becoming slippery.

Then I tried clipping my hair back and over it with a black bobby pin. Worked for a bit. Then my fingers made like Moses, parted my hair and like a heat-seeking missile, found the mole. Fail again.

Then my second daughter came up with a solution I thought was foolproof. “Use Scotch tape, Mommy.” Brilliant. For a bit. I tear off a tiny piece and cover the area. Then my fingers find it and the area felt smooth. No bump. Wow. This is no fun. I actually stop. Until I’m sitting in church and the guy who had been sitting a row behind me yells (after service,) “Hey  Raj, what’s that thing in your hair? At the back of your head?” 

Epic fail.

Seriously? You can’t make this stuff up. This from the same guy who boldly asked me about my allergically enhanced lips when everyone else either stared or talked to the ceiling. Gotta love a friend who just says it like it is. But his words were enough to ditch that option.

Next, I tried duct tape. Black, of course, to match my hair. The only problem was, that stuff is strong, and I can’t risk creating a nickel-sized bald spot just to keep my ADHD hands in order. So out went all tape. And on went the hats. I wear a hat around the clock now. Unless I’m in a social setting that would get me thrown out. Like say, the Oscars. 

All I can think is, if this tiny little bugger is considered a beauty mark, I’m good with a little less beauty. Cut the thing off and leave me in peace. Hubs just rolls his eyes when I beg him to bring home a scalpel and put me out of my misery. Desperate is not too strong a word choice for my state, at times.

So last night, my kids upped the ante, because a hat is easy to pull off and return to the place of my ruin. My fingers on my head and everyone staring. 

Have you ever heard of Nibble No More? It’s a clear, aqua, nail polish made from cactus extract, and people apply it to their fingers to nip the nail-biting habit in the bud. Because let me tell you, this stuff is lethal. As in, if you get even so much as a microscopic droplet on your tongue, you will pay. For hours. Possibly days. The stuff gives the word aftertaste a bad rep. Because it stays with you… forever after!

Well, last night, daughter number one, after new debates as to how to help Mommy and her crazed head touching habit, brushed a tiny bit over my mole. No joke. And for the last twelve hours, I am terrified to go there. Because the price is finally high enough. I cannot spend my hours at the bathroom sink, spitting and brushing my teeth. All day long. Because that’s what’ll happen if my fingers touch my mole and my fingers brush my lips, even by accident.

So here I am, hat in place, just in case I have a moment of amnesia, and forget the landmine that lies behind me. At the back of my head. Hoping this is the battle plan that will win the war.

And as ridiculous as this all might seem, I am so thankful for a family who refuses to let me stay stuck. In fact, even little Sarah is rooting for me.

This morning, just before I walked her down to the bus stop, she says, “And Mommy. Use all three: the tape, the hair clip, and the hat. And don’t touch it. I’ll be checking on you when I get home.” Yup. That’s my Mom… I mean girl.

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And you? Do you wear hats? A favorite go-to thinking cap or choice sports team baseball hat? Am I the only one out there with freaky fingers? 🙂