Women in Hats

Sometimes, before I fall asleep I see his grinning face and I want him to know that I am dangerous. I want to watch his fear as he stumbles backwards, over a cliff, or from the shot of my gun. He will learn, too late, that I meant “no” when I said it. I am a woman who watches old movies. So believe me when I say, I know about stylish revenge. It is best served wearing a hat.

I have spent years watching men watch women. I know that when you first see me, I get out of a car and your gaze will scan my legs. I know that when I walk away, your camera will take my swagger as a sexual invitation. I see what you see. When I watch a film, I am a woman watching men watching women. Sometimes I forget how to see myself. But I know I am dangerous.

Cinema has taught me how to be looked at and how to scheme whilst I'm looking. When I first see you, it will be from beneath the edge of my hat. It will be with my face turned upwards.

So which hat best sells revenge? I ponder this as I prepare to wipe that grin of your stupid face. Pre-code Hollywood, I am coquettish and daring. My cloche frames a face without shadows. Men call me beautiful. Women call me bad.

I have learned that I should not write or talk too much. Analysing beauty, defining pleasure, speaking of desire – numbs it, destroys it. Women with words wear small hats to one side and can’t keep a man. They are all angles. They’ve forgotten to be soft. There will be a clinch before being thrown to one side.

Or I could wear a top hat to seduce you and your girl. I am playful and you are my prey. I am too much woman for both of you.

But as my danger deepens I need a brim to cast a shadow. My eyes will be slowly revealed and, regardless of the situation, I will need you to provide me with a cigarette.

The hat provides the shades of a city street and the blinds on the private investigator’s office. The hat hides my secrets, my guilt, my afflictions, my tears. I stopped talking to other women so that men could tilt my face to kiss it.

I know that growing old is the biggest sin. I will always be big, but the pictures will get small. It will take a soaring score to tempt me down the stairs. A turban or simple white peacock feather. I’m ready for my close up. But you are not prepared for my madness.

In technicolour, everything matches. An outfit is more than a dress. I take joy in my finishing touches. It changes me into what I am not. Shoes to match the palette. Gloves to hold a gun. And a jaunty hat to add adventure. My concern with my appearance bores you until you can see my dazzling self in another man’s room. Tears, whether real or not, look better through a veiled pillbox.

But the most murderous of hats is the beret. I have cheekbones, large eyes and hair that hangs heavy, swept to one side and kept in place by my headwear. I am not messing around. I want you to know who I am. My gun is not a handbag pistol, but a rifle that tears skin and exposes bone. I shoot at close range and laugh.

That will teach you not to grin.

Beware of a woman who watches old movies. She does not forget. She will not be laughed at. She will wear a hat. And she will plot her revenge.