being original

Being original seems to be all the rage right now. Which is understandable, because being original is the bee’s knees. But there are some often overlooked downsides to such intentional self distinction. For instance, as some may recall, my high school years were very much characterized by my frequent sporting of a unique hat that I affectionately referred to as the dutchboy hat. I so dubbed it because with its undersized bill and slightly floppy top, it closely resembled the hat worn by the Dutch Boy Painter. See:



For years this hat and I could hardly be severed. Like all unicycle riders, I loved the idea of being unique even if the thing that distinguished me from the rest of the crowd bordered on stupidity. When I went on my mission, I ceremoniously passed the torch of sporting the dutchboy on to my little brother as well as to one Marshall Hunt. (Owing to my obsession with the hat, I purchased an identical one to supplement the first and could therefore bestow dutchboys upon two). During the two-year hiatus I itched for my hat. Without it to support, the only thing my stupid ears were good for was hearing. It is no surprise that as soon as I arrived home, I commandeered the dutchboys I had lent and immediately resumed my trademark look.

Even though it was Angela who originally gave me the hat (which accounted a great deal for my obsession with it) she soon developed a loathing for it. Yet, because of my love for the hat, I denied her repeated petitions to retire it. My resolve was to be buried in that hat and my resolve was unflinching.

Soon though, the dark side of individuality began to surface. Christmas sucked that year. I opened up present after present to find hat after hat. From Cat-in-the-Hat style striped top hats to train conductor hats to Jamaican knit hats with fake dreadlocks sewn into them, every one of them was as gay as gay can be. Apparently my feigned appreciation was thinly veiled because each bestower of each crappy hat felt it necessary to explain the reasoning for their gift—they figured that since I liked one abnormal hat, any abnormal hat, no matter how completely idiotic, would strike my fancy. They were grossly mistaken.

Though annoyed, I was not swayed in my devotion to the dutchboy—at least not until Britney Spears in all her debased frivolity endeavored to boast a hat almost identical to mine in one her music videos. The only difference was that hers was sparkly and lined with diamonds around the rim. Determined not to cave, I continued to rock my hat, now with even more vigor. The first time someone asked me why I was wearing a Britney Spears hat, I sternly corrected their assertion that that wily hussy had been the one to patent the wearing of such a hat and informed them that my dutchboy hat long predated her silly antics. But the comments kept coming. And the curious stares piled up. And more and more girls, most of them being the type that just don’t know when to say when in regards to either glitter or sparkles, began to follow Britney’s suit. Out of sad necessity the dutchboy was forced into an ill-timed retirement and pushed to the darkest part of the closet.

Though the fad initiated by Britney Spears has long passed, the dutchboy hasn’t found his way out of the closet. You can understand—it’s soiled now. Yet it still stands as a symbol—a symbol of the danger of originality, for someday, mainstream culture will catch up to your trademarks, dip them in sparkles, and ruin everything.