FEATURES ~ The Nuance and fistory of the Tuque, not Toque By Andrea Webster, Intercamp (Grant MacEwan College) opfeatures@gmail.com EDMONTON (CUP)—It’s that time of year again when we pack away the sunscreen and dig out old faithful: the tuque—a powerful symbol in Canadian culture. There are plenty of other cold climate countries in the world, but none have personalized the tuque quite like us Canadians. Year after year, Canadians turn to their warm, furry friend to give them comfort for the harsh months ahead. Most Canadians spend five months a year—from the day they’re born until the day they die—nestled inside their cozy, cranial condoms without giving much thought to where or how it all began. It has occurred to me this special wonder may not be getting the appreciation it deserves. Where did the tuque originate? Where did the name come from? What makes a tuque special? Why does our culture have such an attachment for this simple accessory? Is “tuque” even the right spelling? With these questions in mind, I donned my favourite orange ski- doo tuque and headed to the nearest Farmers’ Market in hopes of finding a knitting granny to give me some insight. Linda Finstad: tuque goddess Linda Finstad, from Hats by Emmanuel, has been selling tuques at the market for five years. Finstad sells novelty tuques made from fleece material. “T’m in sales, and people want fleece, so I give them fleece. Not to mention, I can’t really knit,” she says with a giggle. Finstad informs me that the traditional knitted style with a fuzzy pompom on top, much like the one I’m wearing, were referred to as “silly bugger hats” when she grew up in the northwest of England. “They gave them to people in the nuthouse and they'd sit and nod their heads making the bobble bounce back and forth,” she says followed by more wild giggling. Finstad says tuques aren’t really her specialty as she’s mostly in the regular hat business. Feeling slightly discouraged, I scanned the emptying warehouse hoping to find someone who could feed my need for tuque knowledge. I headed home; my shoulders slumped over in defeat, stopping off at a liquor store for a little inspiration. Alas! Like angels in glowing halos of wool, a couple emerged from the liquor store bearing knitting needles, Bob and Doug McKenzie paraphernalia, and a case of Crest beer. It’s obvious these were two people who truly know tuque. “Tt's not a fetish, it's a way of life” Jeff LeDrew and Shannon Lawrence consider themselves connoisseurs of the tuque trade. Even after a few generous portions of rye, they refuse to disclose any further personal information, but are familiar faces in halls of Grant MacEwan College. I ask them about their tuque fetish. “It’s not a fetish, it’s a way of life,” Jeff quickly responds. “It’s all about warmth, style, and fuzziness.” Jeff embraced his love for tuques when he—like many young men—realized his age was showing through his rapidly receding hairline. “For aging men, a tuque is more of a life-saving tool than a fashion item,” he adds. This sparks interest in Shannon as she discusses the possibilities of a tuque being a male ego-building device. “Tn areas of North Scandinavia, the Sami reindeer herders wear wool hats with pompoms to show their status. The larger the pompom, the more wealth you have,” she says. I beam with pride as I make note to share this with Finstad at the Farmers Market next week. Lawrence is a seamstress and knits tuques on the side for a little extra cash. She admits that previous haircuts have made it difficult for her to enjoy the pleasure of tuque- wearing. “My hair was always too big, I found it hard to find one that didn’t look awkward so I started making my own,” she says. Wool or fleece? That is the question I ask for her opinion on wool versus fleece. “Wool is a lot warmer and more natural. A lot of people have a problem with the itch factor. It’s essential to get one with high lanolin wool content. The lanolin is what makes the wool less scratchy. Washing wool lowers the lanolin content.” LeDrew adds that a combination of both wool and fleece is his favourite choice. “Fleece is very insulatory and if you add that to the natural warmth of wool, you have a powerhouse of warmth,” he says. With global warming on the rise, finding warmth may no longer be a concern. I ask LeDrew if they fear the future of tuques to be doomed. “I think there will always be a place for the tuque, winter or not. Hats look good, people like hats. It’s a win-win combination,” he says. The perfect tuque? I ask how to find a perfect tuque. “A good tuque also comes with a good head shape. Finding the right tuque to suit your head shape is essential. The right fitting tuque should fill you with” confidence and pride in knowing that not only are you warm, but really, really, ridiculously good looking too,” he says. The tuque—past, present, future. The “tuque”—commonly misspelled “toque,” is significant in Canadian history. “Tuque” is a French Canadian name accredited to the French Canadian voyageurs that traveled in the mid-1800s throughout what is now Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec in search of pelts. These knitted stocking caps—usually pointed—were also a symbol of French Canadian nationalism during the 1837 Patiotes Rebellion. Precursor to the modern day tuque was the “toque”—a small, round, close-fitting hat. In 12th- and 13th-century France, women wore embroidered toques usually made of velvet, satin, or taffeta on top of their head veils. The tuque has come to know many names: the beanie, the skullie, the ski cap, the bobble hat, and the whoopee cap. It has even been referred to as a dink. Tuques were traditionally of woollen-knit material, but modern advances in technology have given shoppers an array of materials and styles to choose from. There are tuques with pompoms, earflaps, neck straps, brims, roll-ups, and the unforgettable but regrettable dragon tails of the early 90s. There is a tuque to suit every occasion from the Sunday church crochet knit to the full-face coverage of the balaclava. So throw your concerns about hat hair aside and pull your tuque down low. If not in the name of national pride, then to take comfort in the fact that you'll trap in the 90 percent of body heat that is lost through the top of your noggin, which makes drunken public flashings in winter less of a health hazard and all the more acceptable. So whip it out and make your mother proud. A warm wooly tuque that is. Photo by Jenn Aird