Under Her Hat (Short Fiction)
02nd July 2025
In: Short Stories
Miss Veronique Greene had a passion for hats. All headware in fact. Anything that covered and so disguised the thin and scattered tufts of her gingery-blonde hair. The legacy of a fire in her studio when working by candlelight, the electricity gone off due to strikes, her scalp burned so disasterously that many of the hair follicles never recovered. The skin left so scarred and angry, patched like a scrubland with random sprouts of stunted growth. Her face miraculously untouched. A miracle, the doctors agreed, but there was nothing to be done for her ruined scalp — no surgery or treatment could restore that damage. So the nursing home sent for catalogues of wigs for her to consider. She ordered a selection, tried on a few, but wasn’t suited. They felt and looked false. Like she was someone else. Instead, she wore a snug-fitting white cotton skullcap to cover the ugliness. It made her look , she thought, like a novice about to take holy orders.
As she recovered, she grew tired of this virginal look and experimented with coloured head scarves. Bold, bright and expressive, they suited her artistic nature. Visitors to her studio complimented her. Next, she tried turbans — exotic and handmade, imported and carrying high customs charges, their uniqueness appealed, made her feel special.
When trawling through fashion magazines looking for ideas, she found a small ad offering the services of a hat-maker. She wrote to the box number and waited. A reply came by return of post.
The woman arrived precisely on time. Old, hunched over, her eyes sharp, her voice strong with authority. Veronique was unsure how to deal with her.
‘I need to see your scalp, feel its contours and make a mental map before I start work.’ Veronique shook her head, appalled at the thought of a stranger seeing her ugliness. ‘It is necessary,’ the old woman insisted. She reached for Veronique’s headwrap and gently unwound it. The scattered tufts of flattened hair sprang up, as though bristling in shock. ‘Relax,’ the old woman said, ‘I’ve seen far worse. Now hold still.’
Her stick-dry fingers felt oddly soothing. Veronique didn’t flinch but held position calmly. ‘Good. That’s all for today. I will make you a hat. It will take a while — the right materials are sometimes hard to come by. Be patient. Meanwhile, rub this into your scalp at bedtime — it will help with the fitting. I will come back in two weeks.’ She rose to leave.
‘But you don’t know what sort of hat I want, and we haven’t discussed cost. I have no idea what you charge ...’
‘I do know, and you can afford payment. Be patient.’
Veronique picked up her headwrap, intending to replace it. ‘No. Let your scalp breathe a little — don’t cover it.’ The old woman saw herself out.
Veronique sorted through her collection of caps and scarves and turbans, folding and tucking them into the capacious ottoman at the foot of her bed. She opened the jar of cream she’d been told to massage into her scalp. The smell wasn’t unpleasant. Indeed, there was something familiar about it, but identification eluded her. But surely there could be no harm in following the old woman’s instructions. Even an old woman who hadn’t, she realized, offered a name or given any clue to her location. All Veronique had was a box number. She waited out the two weeks, staying indoors, no visitors, her head horribly naked but smoother for the nightly application of cream.
Just as prompt as before, the old woman appeared on her doorstep. She was carrying a large round box. Her hat, Veronique assumed, welcoming her visitor with her head obediently bare.
The old woman regarded her quizically. ‘You followed my orders, then?’ Veronique nodded emphatically. They went through to her bedroom. Veronique sat expectantly before her dressing table mirror while the old woman undid the strings of the box. She took her time. What emerged resembled a bowl of close- woven grasses similar to a nest a bird might make. It was green — alive — as though freshly plucked from a meadow. Veronique bit her tongue, frightened to offend the old woman. She kept her thoughts silent.
‘Sit very still.’ The old woman fussed and patted her creation until it shaped itself to the exact contours of Veronique’s pate. Transfixed, as though in a dream state, Veronique watched in the mirror. Her scalp tingled, but not unpleasantly. Would any explanation be forthcoming?
The old woman grunted, seeming satisfied with her work. ‘You need to keep it watered,’ she said. ‘A fine drizzle every day. It mustn’t dry out or it will lose its potency.’
‘I have to keep it on?’
‘At all times. Never try to remove it until it’s ready, when it will loosen and fall off of its own accord.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Who knows ...? A month, a year? Healing takes its own time. Be patient.’
‘I can’t go out like this!’
‘Vanity!’ The old woman sighed. ‘If you must, then wear this to cover it.’ She took something else from the big round box. It was white and broad-brimmed like a sunhat, gossamer-light as though spun by Nature’s own magic. She placed it on Veronique’s head. It felt like nothing — no weight at all — but it flattered her and looked stylish, giving no hint as to what was under it — that elven-green skullcap. ‘I’ll leave you the box. Treat it carefully, for it’s fragile. Handle it with respect — no one else must touch it. Understand?’ Veronique nodded, bemused but unquestioning. ‘Good. We’re done, then.’ The old woman got up and took a step towards the door.
‘Wait! What do I owe you?’
‘What do you value most in the world?’
‘My paintings.’
‘Then paint me a picture of you — as you see yourself — as you imagine yourself to be. The you under the hat.’
‘You don’t want money?’
‘No use for it.’ The old woman gave a dismissive snort. ‘There are much better things of far more value.’
Veronique listened to her retreating footsteps on the stairs. Quick and light, as a much younger woman’s would be.
Days passed. Her scalp itched a little, but she resisted the urge to scratch. As a precaution, she wore gloves at night, repeating the reminder to herself not to touch or disturb the green covering. She watered it religiously with a plant spray, keeping it to a dampness level that ensured lushness. She checked for any sign of withering and found none.
She began on the painting, which took a surreal turn. She stared at herself in the mirror, perplexed by her inability to capture what she thought she saw. She did sketches, which she discarded as they failed to communicate any sense of character or emotion. Frustrated, she submitted to a wild impressionism that split her features, and allowed art to reflect what she couldn’t otherwise express. The face that stared back at her from the canvas amazed and revolted her. Both hideous and beautiful, hateful and placid, her face divided into territories of human and not.
Months passed. She saw no one. Picked at groceries delivered to her doorstep. Ate little, slept late. The greenness persisted, jungle-damp, the featherweight hat shaded it from view. She made herself be patient. Followed instructions. Prayed.
After a year, doubts tormented her. Maybe if she contacted the old woman again. She searched the tottering pile of magazines to find the ad, sure of the issue it had appeared in. It wasn’t there. She brooded on this,unable to come to a conclusion. Had she been tricked? But to what end? It took all her strength of will not to pull off the white sunhat and lift at least a corner of the green crust living on her skull. Instead, she grabbed at her brushes and squeezed paint on her palette, mixing colours furiously, and began a new canvas. She painted what she could recall of the old woman. Inventing what she couldn’t remember. She gave her a shiny traditional witches hat — the blackest.
One morning she found a crisp brown leaf on her pillow. It crumbled in her hand. Despite the constant watering, it had died. The next morning there were three dead leaves, the number escalating as the days passed. She held her excitement in check, not daring to hope for too much. At last the cap loosened its grip, shrinking in size, then peeling away piece by piece. She gathered every scrap of it into the big round box. Her scalp was now covered in a fine golden fuzz, soft to the touch, and appearing in the mirror as being even from every angle. She rinsed this baby-fluff growth through in lukewarm water, massaging her scalp gently, then patting it dry almost reverently with a clean towel. At last, she let herself cry.
The old woman never collected her painting.
As she recovered, she grew tired of this virginal look and experimented with coloured head scarves. Bold, bright and expressive, they suited her artistic nature. Visitors to her studio complimented her. Next, she tried turbans — exotic and handmade, imported and carrying high customs charges, their uniqueness appealed, made her feel special.
When trawling through fashion magazines looking for ideas, she found a small ad offering the services of a hat-maker. She wrote to the box number and waited. A reply came by return of post.
The woman arrived precisely on time. Old, hunched over, her eyes sharp, her voice strong with authority. Veronique was unsure how to deal with her.
‘I need to see your scalp, feel its contours and make a mental map before I start work.’ Veronique shook her head, appalled at the thought of a stranger seeing her ugliness. ‘It is necessary,’ the old woman insisted. She reached for Veronique’s headwrap and gently unwound it. The scattered tufts of flattened hair sprang up, as though bristling in shock. ‘Relax,’ the old woman said, ‘I’ve seen far worse. Now hold still.’
Her stick-dry fingers felt oddly soothing. Veronique didn’t flinch but held position calmly. ‘Good. That’s all for today. I will make you a hat. It will take a while — the right materials are sometimes hard to come by. Be patient. Meanwhile, rub this into your scalp at bedtime — it will help with the fitting. I will come back in two weeks.’ She rose to leave.
‘But you don’t know what sort of hat I want, and we haven’t discussed cost. I have no idea what you charge ...’
‘I do know, and you can afford payment. Be patient.’
Veronique picked up her headwrap, intending to replace it. ‘No. Let your scalp breathe a little — don’t cover it.’ The old woman saw herself out.
Veronique sorted through her collection of caps and scarves and turbans, folding and tucking them into the capacious ottoman at the foot of her bed. She opened the jar of cream she’d been told to massage into her scalp. The smell wasn’t unpleasant. Indeed, there was something familiar about it, but identification eluded her. But surely there could be no harm in following the old woman’s instructions. Even an old woman who hadn’t, she realized, offered a name or given any clue to her location. All Veronique had was a box number. She waited out the two weeks, staying indoors, no visitors, her head horribly naked but smoother for the nightly application of cream.
Just as prompt as before, the old woman appeared on her doorstep. She was carrying a large round box. Her hat, Veronique assumed, welcoming her visitor with her head obediently bare.
The old woman regarded her quizically. ‘You followed my orders, then?’ Veronique nodded emphatically. They went through to her bedroom. Veronique sat expectantly before her dressing table mirror while the old woman undid the strings of the box. She took her time. What emerged resembled a bowl of close- woven grasses similar to a nest a bird might make. It was green — alive — as though freshly plucked from a meadow. Veronique bit her tongue, frightened to offend the old woman. She kept her thoughts silent.
‘Sit very still.’ The old woman fussed and patted her creation until it shaped itself to the exact contours of Veronique’s pate. Transfixed, as though in a dream state, Veronique watched in the mirror. Her scalp tingled, but not unpleasantly. Would any explanation be forthcoming?
The old woman grunted, seeming satisfied with her work. ‘You need to keep it watered,’ she said. ‘A fine drizzle every day. It mustn’t dry out or it will lose its potency.’
‘I have to keep it on?’
‘At all times. Never try to remove it until it’s ready, when it will loosen and fall off of its own accord.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Who knows ...? A month, a year? Healing takes its own time. Be patient.’
‘I can’t go out like this!’
‘Vanity!’ The old woman sighed. ‘If you must, then wear this to cover it.’ She took something else from the big round box. It was white and broad-brimmed like a sunhat, gossamer-light as though spun by Nature’s own magic. She placed it on Veronique’s head. It felt like nothing — no weight at all — but it flattered her and looked stylish, giving no hint as to what was under it — that elven-green skullcap. ‘I’ll leave you the box. Treat it carefully, for it’s fragile. Handle it with respect — no one else must touch it. Understand?’ Veronique nodded, bemused but unquestioning. ‘Good. We’re done, then.’ The old woman got up and took a step towards the door.
‘Wait! What do I owe you?’
‘What do you value most in the world?’
‘My paintings.’
‘Then paint me a picture of you — as you see yourself — as you imagine yourself to be. The you under the hat.’
‘You don’t want money?’
‘No use for it.’ The old woman gave a dismissive snort. ‘There are much better things of far more value.’
Veronique listened to her retreating footsteps on the stairs. Quick and light, as a much younger woman’s would be.
Days passed. Her scalp itched a little, but she resisted the urge to scratch. As a precaution, she wore gloves at night, repeating the reminder to herself not to touch or disturb the green covering. She watered it religiously with a plant spray, keeping it to a dampness level that ensured lushness. She checked for any sign of withering and found none.
She began on the painting, which took a surreal turn. She stared at herself in the mirror, perplexed by her inability to capture what she thought she saw. She did sketches, which she discarded as they failed to communicate any sense of character or emotion. Frustrated, she submitted to a wild impressionism that split her features, and allowed art to reflect what she couldn’t otherwise express. The face that stared back at her from the canvas amazed and revolted her. Both hideous and beautiful, hateful and placid, her face divided into territories of human and not.
Months passed. She saw no one. Picked at groceries delivered to her doorstep. Ate little, slept late. The greenness persisted, jungle-damp, the featherweight hat shaded it from view. She made herself be patient. Followed instructions. Prayed.
After a year, doubts tormented her. Maybe if she contacted the old woman again. She searched the tottering pile of magazines to find the ad, sure of the issue it had appeared in. It wasn’t there. She brooded on this,unable to come to a conclusion. Had she been tricked? But to what end? It took all her strength of will not to pull off the white sunhat and lift at least a corner of the green crust living on her skull. Instead, she grabbed at her brushes and squeezed paint on her palette, mixing colours furiously, and began a new canvas. She painted what she could recall of the old woman. Inventing what she couldn’t remember. She gave her a shiny traditional witches hat — the blackest.
One morning she found a crisp brown leaf on her pillow. It crumbled in her hand. Despite the constant watering, it had died. The next morning there were three dead leaves, the number escalating as the days passed. She held her excitement in check, not daring to hope for too much. At last the cap loosened its grip, shrinking in size, then peeling away piece by piece. She gathered every scrap of it into the big round box. Her scalp was now covered in a fine golden fuzz, soft to the touch, and appearing in the mirror as being even from every angle. She rinsed this baby-fluff growth through in lukewarm water, massaging her scalp gently, then patting it dry almost reverently with a clean towel. At last, she let herself cry.
The old woman never collected her painting.