The Story
I got mistaken for a doorman once, and I didn’t correct anyone for nearly four hours.
It was at one of those film parties where everyone is dressed in black, drinking warm champagne and pretending they have somewhere more important to be afterwards.
A mate had asked me to help him set up for five minutes.
“Just stand by the door,” he said.
Simple enough.
I was wearing a dark jacket, this hat, and I had that look on my face I get when I’m confused but trying to hide it. Apparently that’s exactly what a doorman looks like.
The first guy who arrived handed me his car keys.
I went to explain that I didn’t work there, but he was already walking inside. The keys were for a Mercedes, which felt like a lot of responsibility for someone who had only learned to change a lightbulb a few years earlier.
I put them on the table.
Then another person arrived and asked where the bathrooms were.
I pointed down the hallway.
There were bathrooms down the hallway.
I was right.
That was the beginning of my career in hospitality.
For the next few hours, I opened doors, nodded seriously, told people the bar was “just through there” and took coats off strangers. One woman handed me a fifty-dollar note and said, “Thank you, darling.”
I said, “Of course.”
I had no idea what I was thanking her for.
At one point, a guy came up and asked if I could get him into the after-party.
I told him I’d see what I could do.
Then I walked inside, got myself another drink, waited ten minutes and came back out.
“Sorry mate, it’s pretty tight tonight.”
He looked devastated.
I felt horrible.
But also… powerful.
Eventually, the actual owner of the venue arrived. I stopped him at the door and asked for his name.
He laughed and said, “I own the place.”
I said, “That’s exactly what someone who doesn’t own the place would say.”
He stared at me for a second, then started laughing so hard I thought I might actually be fired from a job I didn’t have.
He let me keep the fifty bucks.
I gave the Mercedes keys back to the real valet, who looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Which, technically, I was.
But I’d made seventy-three dollars, drank six free champagnes and somehow gained an unhealthy amount of confidence from opening doors.
I made this hat from the feeling of that night.
Dark enough to make people think you know what you’re doing. The deep brown vintage Petersham bow is a little too formal, the red stitching is a reminder that no matter how convincing you look, there’s always one loose thread waiting to expose you.
It’s a hat for walking into places you may or may not belong.
Just don’t take anyone’s car keys.
KM