The Russian Hat

Say what you will about wearing fur, here in Sweden, it isn't an issue. Women of all ages wear fur coats. In Prague, we saw fur trim everywhere. In Moscow where Peter now spends most of his time, people wear fur hats by necessity. -15 and snowy means you bundle up when you go outside.

I don't have an issue with wearing fur. I inherited my coats and when I wear them, it's a connection to other great ladies from my family. The black lamb was my grandmother's. The mink stole was my mother's. The red fox muff belonged to my other gran. The swakara belonged to Aunt Elsie I think before it wound it's way via my gran, to my mom who had it restyled. It's very elegant and a shame that it has to sit in the closet in Canada, and quite frankly I'm glad to be in a country where I can wear it proudly and show it off because it's beautiful.

This is the story of my Russian fur hat.

Peter is good to me. He got it into his head that I should have a fur hat to go with the swakara fur coat. OK. Picture a Bond girl - Sophie Marceau in "The World Is Not Enough" - she had a nice hat. I could wear something that made me look that fabulous. In my mind's eye, it would be black and elegant, blend nicely with my dark hair, and be the sort of accessory that said 'wow' not 'whoa'.

Peter found this one in a shop in Moscow one weekend when he was wandering around. The woman in the shop tried several on and modelled them for him. It was quite the show apparently. It's silver fox, and having been an earmuffs-wearer for years, I'm surprised how cold my head gets when I don't wear it. I think it says 'whoa' rather than 'wow', but I wear it anyway. And like my furry boots, I tend to think it's the sort of thing that people who know me would say, 'Ya. That's Shep'.