We are not necessarily hat people in my family.  Except in the summer, of course.  I mean, we care about our heads, we just don’t particularly care to adorn them.  But, when I noticed that David’s lovely, smooth head was starting to speckle like a quail egg, I hauled out the hats.  While the chic beach goers can be seen in broad, elegant straw hats I am most often found under a cricket hat.  I have a beautiful straw hat given to me by my friend.  Every time I wear it people comment and give me the thumbs up.  My friend wears hats year round as needed.  In the summer she has a perfectly-proportioned buttermilk colored straw hat with a broad black ribbon around the crown.  When we went to Nantucket just before Christmas she bought us both cashmere cloches.  My friend looked like a 1920s French gamin in hers.  I looked like a penis in mine. No really.  Anyway, the cricket hat.  You know how they look, right?  Bright white and stiff brimmed, pristine and evocative of long lazy afternoons, green grass and Pimm’s Cup.