Retiring My Helmet
It’s been sitting in corners for the past year. The corner of my car’s trunk, tack trunk, corner of the coat closet, and now it has come to rest in the corner of my tack room, quietly collecting cobwebs. The black velvet now shines light brown and the leather chin strap is frayed, yet I still can’t bring myself to throw away my helmet.
I was 16 when my parents bought the Charles Owen Hampton helmet for me. When I told my brother how much it cost, he gawked and said, “I hope it makes you breakfast in the morning!”
It was the first piece of gear that made me feel as though I had arrived in the world of riding. All the older, cooler riders wore Ariat Heritage pull-on tall boots (B.Z.- before zippers), Tailored Sportsman breeches that covered your belly button, Grand Prix jackets with baby blue silk lining that made you sweat buckets, and Charles Owen helmets. All my show gear was either borrowed, begged or stolen from other girls at the barn, but the one item that belonged solely to me was my velvet helmet.
I felt instantly British and more experienced when I put it on, imagining myself gallivanting across the rolling fields of Devon, England. Alas it didn’t actually make me ride better, but it did instill a sliver of confidence that I now “belonged” in the hunter world.
Fast forward eight years when I began a search for a new show helmet. To my dismay, the velvety black helmet had phased out of equestrian fashion. People preferred those sleek designs with air holes that look like insect eyes. I had to dig around for a Charles Owen that looked remotely like my beloved Hampton. I settled for another style and placed my old friend in the closet.
Too many memories and milestones are etched in its structure: the first time I jumped 3 feet, galloping Lightfoot through Sweet Briar’s campus, the failed attempt at a horse career, winning the Hunt Teams at finals week on Rusty. Formative riding years that fade with the velvet, but stand as testimony to my love of horses.
For now, I think I’ll hang it next to my first pony’s halter and recall the stories tied to both.