The hat in my picture is probably the last hat I'll buy. I wear it every day when out unless I'm behind the saw, then it's a ball cap.
The 3 hats I've owned over the years are all 100X beaver, blocked and shaped by my hands. The two I no longer wear are worn, battered, and two brittle to wear. They each are full of memories and hang on a rack in a place of honor in the house. They've been used to shade lenses from the sun in many different locales, fanned campfires in Russia, Canada, Mexico and the US. I used one to shy away a grizz on the Russian River. There is a bullet hole in one best explained by mentioning only beer, a couple of buddies from the Department, and the ill advised acceptance of a bet.
My hats have been stepped on, danced around, sailed exuberantly through the air, stomped by a bull or two when I was younger and dumber, fought over in a bar or two where uninformed drunks were never taught not to take another person's hat, and they've been disparaged and admired.
My hats are my diary, full of memories both good and bad. They remind me of lessons learned the hard way, of friends no longer here, and of times well wasted. I'm fairly sure that I'm wearing the third and last volume. I have mixed emotions about that.
One secret; I've been known to put on the oldest one and when I look in the mirror I sometimes catch the ghost of an image of a lad very full of himself, ready to take on anything life had to offer.