Tale of the Two-Tone Toque

In a wooden basket, high on a shelf, reside a tumble of gloves, scarfs and toques. One of those toques is Man-Wonder’s favorite reminder of days gone long past—the hunting toque. One side is a charming don’t-shoot-me orange. Turn it inside out and you’ve got the dressed up going-to-town gray version with fashionable (?) orange band.

Randy's toque

The other day our truck was due for its pre-spring tune up. This means an early morning ten-minute drive to the shop followed by a chilly 45 minute bike ride back.

It’s a Man-Wonder job. He always insists he’s happy to do the ride alone.

I know the real reason—he knows what my reaction would be if, while trying to share a bumpy narrow country road, we meet one of those typical road-hogging, dink-ass, red-necking drivers he always complains about. He imagines me yelling obscenities and he pictures us having to pedal our asses trying to outrun a possible returning irate driver . . .

. . .so I stay home.

So, the morning of the tune up, he’s loading the bike when I step out to see him off. You know—the cheery ‘bye honey, be careful, I love you’ scene. And I am secretly and instantly glad I’m not riding with him because he’s wearing his god-awful hunting toque and, worse yet, it’s riding his head like some freaking knitted cone hat.

C’mon, I mean, why is it that as men age they started wearing their hats higher on the head?  Does it help to cool down an over-heated cranium? To fool others into thinking there’s more hair? Or is it to give the illusion that they aren’t getting shorter?


It’s all I can do to not say a word. I mean, it’s his favorite hat and the man is happy. Besides, the mechanic probably won’t notice, and coming home, his bike helmet should cover it, or at least squash it.

I smile, kiss him goodbye and don’t say a single mean thing and run back inside.

. . .Later, he asks me if I had noticed anything odd about his toque before he left.

It takes me a few moments to sift through the jumble of comments before I find one kind enough to offer.

“Well, it was riding a tad high.”

“Yeah.” He nods wisely. “I had to stop on the way home. The helmet wouldn’t stop wobbling. Turns out there was a pair of your gloves shoved in my toque.”


Another prime example of why I call him Man-Wonder. . .



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