A tuque of a different color
I can’t say I ever considered wearing a tuque until Jefrey Zeldman, godfather of the web standards movement, put the full weight of his micro-celebrity behind his self-forged annual Blue Beanie Day. Having turned the knit cap into an icon of the web industry by appearing in one on the cover of his bestselling tech book, Designing with Web Standards, Zeldman used the fitted tuque as the symbol for the movement by calling for supporters to don a blue one on an announced November day each year and replace their online visages with photographic proof. With a newfound reason to finally stop and notice them on their department store racks, I purchased my first tuque — black, with a single row each of white and gray trim — and proudly plunked it atop my head the first time I knew I could stay inside all day and remain safely unseen by human eyes. It didn’t look half-bad. And my, was it comfortable.
In honor of the second annual Blue Beanie Day, in 2008, I dug up a tolerable self-portrait — a photo I took of myself with a camera phone against a backdrop of Times Square — Photoshopped my tri-colored tuque into the obligatory blue, and tossed the bastardization onto my collection of social networking profiles to help spread the web standards love. (I never did buy a blue cap, but I did happen to find one sitting on a bench outside of the National Archives in Washington, D.C. while visiting there a month later. In the just-above-freezing cold, the abadoned cap was a welcome bit of serendipity.)
Long after my first tuque became a staple not only in my wardrobe but on my social profiles, I had trouble finding another one that met my finicky needs quite so well. They were all too pointy, or too tight, or too not black. Not even the one I bought in Amsterdam, which should hold high enough value in sentiment alone, was quite as perfect as I required. It wasn’t until a recent local shopping excursion that I stumbled across two — one black and one brown — that fit as though they were designed just for me. I brought them both home that day and have worn them with great frequency and satisfaction every day since.
The mighty tuque, often mistakenly referred to as a toque, is that ubiquitous knitted cap commonly donned by dock workers, sailors, Canadians, and just about any other type of person who gets cold. Brimless, close-fitting, and just heavy enough to warm the ears in a bite of spiteful weather, the tuque is worn by celebrities and normals alike all over the world. In fact, it’s been seen on the heads of everyone from Jacques Cousteau to Michael Nesmith of The Monkees, and from Bill Murray to U2’s guitarist The Edge. The more fond I grew of my first one, the more I began to notice them. These were not hidden or underrated gems, but rather a cultural norm hidden in plain sight. A quick glance around any busy street on a cold day was enough to spot ten or twenty of them. They had only gone unnoticed by me.
Last Tuesday, I tugged my new black tuque onto my head and left it there. Errands, to-do lists, client work. There it stayed, all day long, even after I traded my blue jeans and cable knit sweater for black sweatpants and a matching sleeveless t-shirt and headed to taiko practice.
I entered the taiko studio prepared, bachi bag and canteen slung over my shoulder. I greeted my fellow taikoists, and they reciprocated. Esther, our Dutch (and therefore rather direct) sensei, looked up from her stretching exercises. The familiar look of an impending friendly ribbing crossed her face.
“You look like a thug,” she said.
For the rest of the night, my trusty tuque sat alongside my bachi bag, a few feet away from the constant pounding of those great wooden drums, on the floor of the studio.
