I bought that first black cowboy hat (a Resistol) at Massey's Corral in Birmingham over a dozen years ago, on one of my first trips to visit Lynn. Liquid Prairie was becoming a real band, and Ranger Dave & Wren both had black hats, so I figured it was time for me to get one. I came to realize pretty quickly that bald guys really do need hats, and I liked the way a cowboy hat suited me better than any other hat I'd ever tried. What began as a musical prop has become my most identifiable accessory.
So my companions were, I think, more shocked than I was when, as we left the restaurant last night and I asked for my hat (a Stetson that I bought in San Antonio), the girl who'd shown us to our table and who I'd left it with, opened up the closet, gasped, and disappeared down the hall. She'd gone to get the manager who appeared shortly extremely apologetic, to explain that another customer, earlier in the evening, tipsy upon departing, had seen the hat in the closet and said, "Oh, and that's my hat." The girl at the hostess desk at that point was not the same one who'd greeted us, and so she saw nothing out of the ordinary in his statement and she gave it to him.
They appeared to think that they know who the customer is and are going to try to retrieve the hat -- if not, they'll replace it, of course. I assured them I wasn't angry with them, and we exchanged phone numbers. Shit happens. I was more amused than anything, and have lovely fantasies about finding the guy, showing him the picture of me and Josie in our cowboy hats and saying, "So how are you gonna explain your despicable behavior to this cute little girl when she asks me what happened to my hat?"
The Bearded Pigs play tonight. Can T. Scott play guitar & sing while hatless? The masses wait and wonder.