TOWERING FIGURES
It started as a joke — a few tall hats at a fashion show. But attention breeds imitation, and imitation breeds order. As height becomes hierarchy, one man tries to keep his head.
It began at a spring fashion expo in Sacramento. A young designer from Elko unveiled a line of hats described as “daringly vertical.” Most dismissed them as unmarketable. But they made the rounds on social media for being, as one influencer put it, “psychotically confident.”
A week later, a minor pop star wore one during an awards show. The next day, a meme comparing it to the Eiffel Tower went viral. Sales quadrupled.
At first, it was ironic. People wore tall hats to be funny, to get attention. Bars began holding “tall hat nights.” Then came the real attention: column inches, interviews, brand collabs.
In every crowd, the tallest hat was noticed first. Photos drifted upward. Influencers began adjusting camera angles. Small hats felt apologetic. Brims began narrowing; crowns grew.
A media analyst called it "visual dominance." A behavioral economist called it "pre-linguistic signaling." No one wanted to be the shortest hat in the room.
Corporate boardrooms noticed. One hedge fund quietly implemented a pilot: senior staff wore slightly taller hats than junior staff. Productivity ticked upward. Promotions began to involve fittings.
At a tech conference in June, two CEOs met on stage. Both wore towering felt structures. When they leaned in for a handshake, their hats collided. One staggered. The crowd gasped.
By Monday, both companies had lost 3% market cap.
Dress codes adapted. Some schools added headgear to their uniforms, standardizing height at two inches. A few allowed students to earn more height through academic achievement. Others began taking it away for disciplinary reasons.
One principal in Michigan implemented a sliding scale: three inches for straight As, one for community service, four for robotics wins. He was promoted to superintendent within a year.
The first unlicensed hat citation occurred in July.
A man wearing a seven-inch top hat in a six-inch zone was issued a warning. He returned the next day with an adjustable one. “I’m compliant now,” he said, twisting a crank.
A quiet standard emerged: four inches for interviews, five for weddings, anything over nine and you were either powerful or delusional. Often both.
I held out. For a while.
I liked my old cap. Neutral, soft, not too loud. But doors didn’t open. Or rather, they opened for others. I watched shorter men in taller hats get seated before me. At work, my emails got fewer responses.
Once, at the DMV, the clerk asked me to remove my cap for the photo. Then paused. “Actually,” she said, “are you sure you want to wear… that?”
So I adjusted. I bought something understated: three and a half inches, felt, matte finish. The next day, people began making eye contact again.
It wasn’t overnight. But it was consistent. The air felt clearer. I got a raise.
Someone asked me for advice in an elevator. I’d never seen them before.
Now I’m at six inches. I don’t remember why I chose this number. It just felt… appropriate. Safe. Respectable.
Sometimes I see someone without a hat, and I flinch. Not out of judgment. Just instinct. As if they’d forgotten a vital part of themselves.
There’s a rumor about a man who lives on a mountain. He wears a hat so tall he’s registered as a navigational hazard. Pilots log sightings.
They say he hasn’t spoken in years. That birds circle his peak. That he dreams in weather patterns.
Maybe he’s real. Maybe not.
But I believe in him.
It helps to look up to something.