The Cajun Hatter

"Are you a hat person? Would you like to be?” 

I’m sitting in the back of The Cajun Hatter, Colby Hébert’s new Magazine Street custom hat store. The New Iberia native offered me a drink and seat, his standard beginning to the collaborative process of hat design. I have not historically worn hats—baseball caps, the chapeau of choice in much of America, exacerbate my “Unitarian Dad” looks, and the less said about my high-school corduroy pork-pie number, the better. But now, looking at the wide brim, orange beadwork, and dramatic feather on the hat Hébert currently wears, I can imagine being a hat person.

Colby Hébert was a costumey, dressy kid, as he recalls: the offspring of a mother he describes as having an Audrey Hepburn elegance and a father who dressed with “Cajun flair” in Robert Graham shirts and alligator boots, he was probably fated to like things a little fancy. “I mean, you learn that you can’t go out on the street dressed as a wizard, but I still liked costumes.” As an actor and costumer, he wore hats on set, ultimately winding up with straightforward sobriquets like “the guy with the hat” and “the Cajun guy who wears hats.” In the age of YouTube tutorials and deep Google searches, the line from “I wonder if I could do this” to “Oh, yeah, it looks like I could!” can be short and direct, especially for someone already experienced with costumes and crafts, and less than a year after his initial “What if…?”, Hébert was making hats. He now offers custom hats for men and women, and is preparing an upcoming signature line of premade hats with bold Louisiana themes.

As an actor and costumer, he wore hats on set, ultimately winding up with straightforward sobriquets like “the guy with the hat” and “the Cajun guy who wears hats.”

He may have had that idea at just the right moment. Hats are coming back, according to Hébert. In the past generation or two, hatmaking largely retreated into Western hats and upscale ladies’ millinery, both New York and the West Coast are seeing a resurgence of covered heads. The South, which for better or for worse tends to take its time catching up to Yankee whims, will likely see this trend arrive in the coming years. Both men’s and women’s hats fell from popularity during the 1960s, as standards of formality generally relaxed. (You can remember Lucy Ricardo coming home with hatboxes; Mary and Rhoda seldom if ever did.) A general informality has reigned until the present, typified most recently by the tech-bro ensemble of jeans, sneakers, and sport coat. Hebert identifies this mix-and-match, adding a formal element to an otherwise casual look, as key to the return of the hat; people are willing to play both with different pieces and with different levels of formality. 

Additionally, the hatter’s craft, as Hébert practices it, involves the old-fashioned craftsmanship and bespoke aesthetic that’s come back into vogue. The actual construction of the hats begins with a loosely shaped bell of felt, built from rabbit or beaver fur. (Hébert will soon offer a glamorous-sounding beaver-mink mixture and is also working on sourcing nutria felt.) Well-made felt, especially from an aquatic animal, is naturally water resistant, given that one of the basic requirements of fur is that it help keep the animal warm and dry. Hébert steams the pre-hat to soften it and make it workable, and then with the help of a hot iron and a wooden form very roughly the shape of a head, shapes the hat: flattening the brim, creating the right-angle break between the brim and the bowl of the hat, and molding the crown. Once the hat is formed, Hébert sands it for smoothness and installs a sweatband, a necessity in this climate. 

The actual construction of the hats begins with a loosely shaped bell of felt, built from rabbit or beaver fur. (Hébert will soon offer a glamorous-sounding beaver-mink mixture and is also working on sourcing nutria felt.)

Then comes the fun part. Each new hat gets a vintage grosgrain ribbon—actual vintage, not vintage-looking. Hébert buys up stock from retiring hatmakers and has built up a backlog of different thicknesses, textures, and colors. From there, he goes on to add embellishments: feathers sourced from zoos and aviaries, strips of gator hide, bright beads. Some clients will bring in special objects or mementos to be worked into a hat, which Hébert happily accommodates; he’ll also take an existing hat, often inherited from a grandfather or other relative, and jazz it up, adding touches to make it contemporary while maintaining the body of the sentimental hat. Then, if the client has requested or allowed it, Hébert will distress the hat, dirtying, wearing, and in some cases lightly charring it, for a one-of-a-kind, lived-in feel.

Hébert describes his aesthetic as “swamp chic” and connects the overall look of his work to a thumbnail version of the dramatic history of the Cajuns: “French people, with this pride in themselves and their culture, get battered in Canada, beaten, forced out, and dragged through the swamp.” The result is a people adapted to hardship and the famously rough-and-tumble landscape of Acadiana, who need a hat that can survive all the running around and sweaty labor it takes to make a living in what it sometimes more the northern Gulf of Mexico than South Louisiana—but who’d still like their hats to have panache.

Hébert describes his aesthetic as “swamp chic” and connects the overall look of his work to a thumbnail version of the dramatic history of the Cajuns ...

In the consultation room, I ask Hébert what the consultation process with custom clients is like. He describes a process of getting to know one another, often aided by a drink or two. He and his client will talk about personal tastes and what they want from the hat—everyday or for special occasions? Muted or flashy? While they talk, Hebert notes how the client has dressed and holds him or herself, as well as making more prosaic judgments about face shape and shoulder width. (I am pleased to report that I have broadly average facial dimensions.) From there, they talk about specifics of shape and color. As we talk, I study a board with various felt samples on it; a cool, deep grey called “willow” speaks to me. I look at the beads and ribbons, mentally holding them up against my chosen felt. I don’t quite dare to ask him to start a hat for me—but there’s a good chance that, someday, when I have a few extra dollars and a bit more swagger, I’ll return and ask Hébert to help me become a hat person.