Fedora Hats Quotes

Charlie pushed his fedora back onto his head. Some hats can only be worn if you're willing to be jaunty, to set them at an angle and to walk beneath them with a spring in your stride as if you're only a step away from dancing.

Earth to Sawyer?" Campbell said. I had no idea what I'd missed. "We were just about to discuss how incredibly debonair I look in this hat," Boone informed me, sliding his fingers along its brim. "I was born to fedora." I wasn't sure whether the pained look on Nick's face was the result of Boone's use of the word fedora as a verb or the conversation he, Campbell, and I had been having before we'd been interrupted.

Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son; or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping her shadow off a wall.... Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’ tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in vanity.... Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner, whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for dessert served himself a chilled fedora....

I never understood the term “Ass hat.” Not until I misplaced my Fedora, and decided to cover up my disheveled hair with underwear.

But let me just say that talking dirty is so important in sex. And it’s pretty easy. To wit: establish from the very beginning that you like this. And trust me, you want to do it early on. Because if you wait too long to introduce the concept, your Special Lady Friend will be a little thrown and might not take you seriously. Think of it as a hat. If you never, ever wear a hat and one day you try to rock a fedora with a feather, all of your friends will be like, “Dude—why are you wearing a fucking fedora with a fucking feather?” You’ll feel insecure and never wear it again. Now imagine that scenario, but in bed with your hardened dick out and it’s your girlfriend saying, “Dude—why the fuck are you talking like that?” Not good.

He was wearing a gleaming cream-coloured linen suit, and a Panama hat. The weirdest thing about this was that he was not the most outlandish-looking person in the room by a long way. Not that Little Miss Dresses-Like-Bogart over here has a right to complain

had been of the opinion that the whole karaoke evening was going to be an utter bust; but then the little old man had sashayed into the room, walked past the table of several blonde women with the fresh sunburns and smiles of tourists, who were sitting by the little makeshift stage in the corner. He had tipped his hat to them, for he wore a hat, a spotless green fedora, and lemon-yellow gloves, and then he walked over to their table. They giggled. “Are you enjoyin’ yourselves, ladies?” he asked. They continued to giggle and

I throw him a smile and pull on my suit jacket and then my hat. “Come on, what would you do?” He pauses for a moment and then lets out a low chuckle. “Just go. Maybe you two can sing in the rain Frank!” he jests, eyeballing my fedora. I throw him a sly smirk. “You may be the better looking brother Kyle, but you know I’m the one with the killer style!

Exchanging Hats Unfunny uncles who insist in trying on a lady's hat, --oh, even if the joke falls flat, we share your slight transvestite twist in spite of our embarrassment. Costume and custom are complex. The headgear of the other sex inspires us to experiment. Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach with paper plates upon your laps, keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps with exhibitionistic screech, the visors hanging o'er the ear so that the golden anchors drag, --the tides of fashion never lag. Such caps may not be worn next year. Or you who don the paper plate itself, and put some grapes upon it, or sport the Indian's feather bonnet, --perversities may aggravate the natural madness of the hatter. And if the opera hats collapse and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps, he thinks what might a miter matter? Unfunny uncle, you who wore a hat too big, or one too many, tell us, can't you, are there any stars inside your black fedora? Aunt exemplary and slim, with avernal eyes, we wonder what slow changes they see under their vast, shady, turned-down brim.

His consolation prize was a hat. A battered fedora that looked as if it had blown off of Humphrey Bogart during the filming of Key Largo. Sucked up into the atmosphere during the movie’s hurricane, it had ended up here, on the other side of the world, sixty years later. On his head. Even though it had been enshrined in a closet inside the house, it kind of smelled as if it had spent about three of those decades at the bottom of a birdcage. Yesiree. It was almost as fun to wear as the brown leather flight jacket. Which really wasn’t fair to the flight jacket. It was a gorgeously cared-for antique that didn’t smell at all. And it definitely worked for him, in terms of some of his flyboy fantasies. But the day had turned into a scorcher. It was just shy of a bazillion degrees in the shade. He needed mittens or perhaps a wool scarf to properly accessorize his impending heat stroke. “Today, playing the role of Indiana Jones, aka Grady Morant, is Jules Cassidy,” he said, as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Was anyone really going to be fooled by this? Jones was so much taller than he was.

The student with whom Hal shared a bedroom, Englishman John Abel Smith, bore educational credentials that Hal could only dimly conceive. John was the namesake of a renowned merchant banker and British Member of Parliament. He had attended Eton, one of the world’s most famous preparatory schools, before entering Cambridge, where he had “read” under the personal tutelage of English scholars. Hal began to understand the difference between his public-school education and the background of his roommates when he surveyed them relative to a reading list he came across. It was titled, “One Hundred Books Every Educated Person Ought to Have Read.” George Montgomery and Powell Cabot had read approximately seventy and eighty, respectively. John Abel Smith had read all but four. Hal had read (though not necessarily finished) six. Hal also felt his social inferiority. He had long known that his parents weren’t fashionable. His mother never had her hair done in a beauty parlor. His father owned only one pair of dress shoes at a time and frequently took long trips abroad with nothing but his briefcase and a single change of underwear, washing his clothes—including a “wash-and-wear” suit—in hotel sinks at night. That was part of the reason why Hal took an expensive tailored suit—a broad-shouldered pinstripe—and a new fedora hat to Boston. He knew that he needed to rise to a new level, fashion-wise. But he realized that his fashion statement had failed when Powell Cabot asked, late in October, to borrow his suit and hat. Hal’s swell of pride turned to chagrin when Powell explained his purpose—he had been invited to a Halloween costume party, and he wanted to go as a gangster.

He took a deep drag, the smoke swirled around the brim of his white fedora hat. "Don't ever do that again!" he yelled while staring into her eyes. "But I love you!" she cried. "Go home." He threw the cigarette bud in the gutter and walk away.

​The overcoat wasn't just any coat. It was a trench coat, to be specific. In addition to the trench coat, he had a hat on. An old fashioned hat, atop his head. The kind one could expect to see a character wearing in an old gangster movie. An old, worn out fedora.

Only then, as she prepared to cross the avenue, did she again spot the man in the fedora hat. He was at the opposite side of the street from where he’d stood before, but the caramel color of his coat was unmistakable. He was loitering in front of what looked like a Ford V8 parked nose-up on the sidewalk. Florence adjusted her shawl over her shoulders and crossed to the opposite corner of the plaza. When she turned back to look again, he was gone

The clothes make the man, or so the saying goes. But all you have to do is look at a row of fedoras to know what a bunch of baloney that is. Gather together a group of men of every gradation—from the powerhouse to the putz—have them toss their fedoras in a pile, and you’ll spend a lifetime trying to figure out whose was whose. Because it’s the man who makes the fedora, not versa vice. I mean, wouldn’t you rather wear the hat worn by Frank Sinatra than the one worn by Sergeant Joe Friday? I should hope so. In

As I came closer, he didn’t acknowledge my footsteps at all. A creepiness came over me. It almost felt like I was approaching a ghost.

. . . I still strolled casually, leisurely, towards the balloon. It was quite an eerie feeling with it just hanging there as if an invisible person were holding the string, which is why I approached it slowly.

The click, clack of the typewriter weakened as I casually strolled through the forest. I stopped for a moment, turned back to study the cottage and the faint light in the window. I felt sad for the man because whatever it was that he was smiling about, whatever it was that he was typing, was disappearing with every stroke of the key.

I look through the crowd of people and somehow see him right away. He looks up at the same time and smiles as soon as our eyes meet. “Hey,” I say when we meet. He stops just inches from me and takes me in his arms, dipping me back a bit for a kiss. “Hey to you too.” He runs his hands over my arms.  “What’s this?” “Oh, I got you something.” “You did?” “I got it on a whim. I saw it at a market I walked through and thought—well, just look at it and you’llknow.” He takes the shopping bag from me and opens it up, pulling out a wool fedora. Looking it over, I worry he won’t get it. “Is this an Indiana Jones hat?” he asks. “Yes!” “I like it.” He smiles and puts it on, and even Harrison Ford would be jealous. “But, uh, why?” I lean back, staring at Archer like he just asked what color the sky is. “You’re Dr. Jones. Please do not tell me no one has ever said ‘okey-dokey Dr. Jones’ to you.” “It’s surprising now that you’ve pointed it out, but no, they haven’t.” He pulls me in and kisses me again. “Wait, there’s an Indiana Jones market going on?” “No, just some weird guy at a pop-up selling hats. He told me I had nice feet.” Archer chuckles. “I guess you do, though, in that dress, it’s hard to look past your tits.” I shimmy and wiggle my eyebrows. “That’s the point of a pushup bra.” 

Ivy plopped a worn-looking fedora on top of his head. “I figured you wouldn’t care about dressing up. So I came prepared. You actually look good, Cam.” I forced myself to refocus. “Very eighties Johnny Depp,” I agreed. He blinked his gaze away from me and straightened the hat. “I’d rather be Jack Sparrow Johnny Depp, but I didn’t dress for that either.” “It wouldn’t fit eighties night,” Ivy said. He scoffed. “Who says it’s 1980s and not 1780s?

The back door opens again a few minutes later and I stand, fully prepared to wrestle the phone away from her. But Morgan’s not standing in my backyard. “Hey, you.” I blink. He’s here. Dark-red T-shirt, brown fedora. I blink again. The corner of his mouth turns up and I take off in a sprint, fly down the stairs of the deck, and jump into his arms, which he wraps tight around me. His hand cups the back of my head and repeatedly strokes my damp hair. Our bodies sway back and forth, and I slowly slide down until my feet touch the ground. I take a step back to study him. “You’re a hat guy again.” I grin. “But, that means--” I gasp when I pull the hat off him. “Your hair! You cut it!” I reach up and rake my hand through his subdued curls, more like waves now. “I cut it for you.” His hands at my bare waist send shivers through my core. “I liked the curls, you know.” “You thought I had a perm!” He leans his head back and laughs fully. “That’s the very definition of not liking the curls.” I giggle and shrug. “They grew on me. But this can grow on me too.

He drove a gray Honda CR-V and ate six Wendy’s Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers from the Drive-Thru Value Menu. He listened to a Spotify playlist of Ed Sheeran, Death Cab for Cutie, and Coldplay while driving exactly the speed limit with his fedora on the dashboard, hooked atop a plastic hat rack he’d purchased for $9.99 on Amazon.