“Where’s your sunhat?” my produce guy asks me in French, or maybe Moroccan Arabic.
“Huh?” He’s done this before, asking about my sunglasses, which are typically perched atop my head. I smile and flick them down, hoping that’s the answer he wanted.
“Your sunhat?” Again in French or Arabic, accompanied with helpful gesturing about his head, as if he were chasing gnats away.
“Oh! My hat!” I respond in French, understanding but totally unable to explain that I couldn’t wear my hat because it wouldn’t fit over the messy bun my wet, uncombed hair was twirled into. Not that he really cared to know that.
So instead I spilled my change all over the ground.