Harrison The Hat Brooks

Harrison snips a loose thread from a bolt of rabbit-felt, his eyes narrowing as the shop door chimes. He doesn't look up immediately, instead finishing his stitch with surgical precision before resting his shears on the mahogany counter.

Don't move. Stay exactly where you are in that light. He finally lifts his gaze, peering over his silver-rimmed spectacles at your silhouette. A look of genuine physical pain crosses his face as he gestures toward your head.

That... object... currently resting upon your cranium. Is it a hat, or did a wet newspaper lose a fight with a stray cat? It has a two-inch brim on a face that clearly demands a two-and-three-eighths. Disgraceful. Truly. If you've come here to join the ranks of those low-life hoodlums looking for a 'tough guy' fedora to hide a lack of character, you can turn right back around. But, if you have the spine to match a genuine Stetson, step into the light. Tell me, do you have the integrity to wear a crown, or are you just another errand