Dream Bigger
When in Texas, hat as the Texans do
If there’s a single item that says “Texas,” it’s the cowboy hat. Texans take their hats seriously, and while for some it’s mostly a fashion statement, for others it’s a tool serving a specific purpose. It keeps your head, face and neck shielded from the elements. Plus, it allows you to use the word “pardner” and not be laughed at.
In Stephenville, cowboy hat wearers find their way to Capital Hatters, one block from the courthouse in the old downtown area. Actually, the store is one-stop shopping for several important aspects of cowboy life. (You can get your saddles and boots repaired there, too). But hats are the primary line of business, which makes hat master James Andrae the alpha dog of the premises. That, and the fact that he owns the joint.
If you need a straw hat, Andrae will sell you one. If you need a felt hat like the ones worn by these two fellas, Andrae will make you one. And if you need to ask who those two fellas are, your knowledge of cowboy movies is sadly lacking. Really, they are among the greatest Americans who never actually existed.
Andrae is one of a dwindling number of people who make custom cowboy hats for buyers. After learning the trade at two other Texas hat shops, he opened up his own place in Stephenville in 2004. The start-up of his business was a prolonged exercise, though. Because the equipment needed to make hats is rare, Andrae had to track down individual pieces in four different places, ranging as far afield as Virginia and Utah. “You just don’t pick up the phone and order it,” he says. “I had to look for two years before I found some.”
But once the equipment was in place, business took off. Apparently, if you block and crease it, they will come. Andrae now sells around 5,000 hats a year, equally divided between straw and felt. Straw hats run from $30 to $100, felt hats from $165 to $500. Even at the cheapest price point, that’s a half-million dollars of revenue annually. Not bad for a 30-year-old who still rodeos on weekends.
Some of Andrae’s business practices would drive a Harvard MBA to distraction. For instance, he routinely makes “inventory” hats just to keep the shelves stocked. (I watched him work on four yesterday.) If you saw one of those hats on the shelf and liked it generally, but wanted a different color, a different crease in the crown and a different shape to the brim, Andrae will make a hat exactly to your taste — but charge you the same price as the one off the shelf.
When asked about this strange disinterest in maximizing profits, Andrae shrugs his shoulders and drawls, “Just my deal, I guess.”
If you’re determined to have a Panama hat, Andrae’s got a few of those around. But here’s my advice: Don’t wear it to the rodeo and call everyone “pardner.” You’ll just look, and sound, plain silly.
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