We were browsing Jest Jewels at the Embarcadero on our lunch hour, me on the hunt for something to make me look fetching for a date with a new man. Gravitating towards the hats, I tried on a little brown tweed number resembling the ones worn by English schoolboys; close-fitting dome crown with a short bill, and snappy gold buttons on each temple. In the right light and when I tilted my head just so, the best I could manage was a slight resemblance to the Monkees’ Davy Jones. With boobs. Which might be OK, if you're confident enough with yourself to carry off looking like a boy-bander in a dress. I'm not.
“I just don’t know,” I pondered, turning from side to side in the mirror. “Something isn't working.”
“Here, Just wear it like this.” Vick took the hat and put it on her head at a little tilt so it half-covered one eye. She framed her face with her hands, turned her head like a screen star from the 1920s, and batted her eyes. “See? Very Puckish. He’ll melt.”
Fine. Out-cute me. Puck this, sister.
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