Evidence of a writerly life is early given. At age 11, I wrote to Lock & Co Hatters, London, asking where I might purchase a bowler hat in Albany, NY. Looking back, there were simply not many occasions to wear such an accessory in such a place, but I did get a lovely reply from Lock. The writer clearly knew he was dealing with a child, but was respectful nonetheless. He directed that I toddle along to Brooks Brothers, Madison Avenue, Manhattan, which had (and has) a Victorian device called a conformateur. A shop clerk places said rig over the customer’s noggin and hundreds of wee wooden pins, painted black, measures every aspect of said customer’s cranium, creating the perfect map for the perfect bowler hat. My father wouldn’t permit me to travel to NYC, but I did get accustomed to using his typewriter, a physically demanding bit of business. That machine dates from 1930 and I still have it. It weighs more than the Great Pyramid of Giza and the sound of its clacking rings in my ears still.
© 2024 John Oliver
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