In which our hero embraces unhip headgear

So it's another rather chilly winter (in Ottawa, modifying 'winter' with 'rather chilly' is very nearly redundant--when it isn't actually an almost criminal understatement). And, in the same fashion as recent years (and I use the term 'fashion' loosely), I've again cheerfully embraced profoundly unhip headgear as a matter of survival.

This year, in fact, I think I've even managed to outdo myself. Whereas in recent years I've happily gotten with chunky felt toques of various descriptions (perhaps cool, just possibly, in certain corners of the snowboarder world--if you're actually on a snowboard at the time you're wearing them), this year I've graduated to a little black number by Windstopper which looks, more than a little, like a condom for your head.

I make no apologies. In this town, in winter, the population divides into two essential groupings: the unhip and the dead.