There’s something defiantly honest about a well-worn baseball cap. Not the pristine, curved-brim absurdities that sit unnaturally atop finance bros’ heads, but the kind that’s been through something – like this coffee-stained brown number that looks like it’s survived long nights in one city or another.
The embroidered white text doesn’t whisper. It tells a truth we all know but rarely admit: “Girls don’t miss their ex; they miss Anthony Bourdain.”
It’s a statement piece for the wanderers, the women who’d rather explore a night market in Bangkok than endure small talk at some forgettable cocktail party with a man who thinks salt is spicy.
The fabric has that perfectly broken-in feel, like your favorite dive bar’s bar stool – comfortable from years of asses more interesting than yours. It’s not trying to be anything other than what it is: a cap for those who understand that heartbreak isn’t about the person who left, but about the road not taken, the adventures missed, the meals uneaten.
Wear it while booking a one-way ticket to somewhere that scares you a little. Wear it while ordering the one menu item your well-meaning friends warn you against.
This cap won’t fix your broken heart or replace what’s gone. Nothing does that. But like a crisp dirty martini at 5 à 7, it offers a moment of recognition – a silent nod that says: “Yeah, I fucking get it too.”
No bullshit. No pretense. A tribute to those who also miss the man who taught us how to see the world.
There’s something defiantly honest about a well-worn baseball cap. Not the pristine, curved-brim absurdities that sit unnaturally atop finance bros’ heads, but the kind that’s been through something – like this coffee-stained brown number that looks like it’s survived long nights in one city or another.
The embroidered white text doesn’t whisper. It tells a truth we all know but rarely admit: “Girls don’t miss their ex; they miss Anthony Bourdain.”
It’s a statement piece for the wanderers, the women who’d rather explore a night market in Bangkok than endure small talk at some forgettable cocktail party with a man who thinks salt is spicy.
The fabric has that perfectly broken-in feel, like your favorite dive bar’s bar stool – comfortable from years of asses more interesting than yours. It’s not trying to be anything other than what it is: a cap for those who understand that heartbreak isn’t about the person who left, but about the road not taken, the adventures missed, the meals uneaten.
Wear it while booking a one-way ticket to somewhere that scares you a little. Wear it while ordering the one menu item your well-meaning friends warn you against.
This cap won’t fix your broken heart or replace what’s gone. Nothing does that. But like a crisp dirty martini at 5 à 7, it offers a moment of recognition – a silent nod that says: “Yeah, I fucking get it too.”
No bullshit. No pretense. A tribute to those who also miss the man who taught us how to see the world.
