The Hat's the Thing
Ratchet wasn't your average girl. This wasn't solely because there is no such thing, though. It was also because she was both thoroughly atypical and positively typical. That is to say, she was human.
Ratchet's hair was a slightly reddish brown and varied in length wildly, some of it reaching below her chest, and some of it incapable of making contact with her shoulder. Her eyes were an unimportant color, but seemed to dazzle the fairer sex more than any insanely expensive pebble mounted on 24-caret gold.
She generally wore overlarge camo jeans, a rather disgustingly overused T-shirt (which was, nonetheless, spotless), and a fedora that could have been made decades ago and mistakenly left in a thoroughly not abandoned alley, only to be used, misused, and unused for the next couple decades. In truth, the story wasn't much different.
Still, she loved the hat, and, though its brim drooped sadly more than often, Ratchet continued to wear it. Secretly, she felt much too sorry for it to ever let it out of her sight. The thought of throwing it away, at this point, was tantamount to bombing her own house during her own birthday. Thus, Ratchet had kept the hat for more than eight years, never letting it out of her sight.
As she walked back toward home (she didn't know why she was going that way), she was completely hatless.
Unbelievably, she didn't notice.
!Noah!
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