Icons – The Stetson

Words by Delwyn Mallett
Photography by Chloe Mallett
Fashion styling by Cristina Breslin

All about the hat that built the west

There are hats, and then there are Stetsons. Baseball caps have become advertising hoardings, berets are too ‘arty’, but the Stetson announces itself like a saloon door kicked open at high noon. It says: I own a horse… or at least a sun-bleached pickup truck.

John Batterson Stetson was born into a family of hatters in 1830 in East Orange, New Jersey, where his father had started the very successful but curiously named (or should that be ‘un-named’) ‘No Name Hat Company’.  In his late 20s he was diagnosed with tuberculosis, an invariably fatal disease, and decided to explore the American west before it killed him. He eventually ended up prospecting for gold in Colorado where he failed to find the precious metal, but he did strike gold of another kind. Using his hat-making skills he had fashioned a wide brimmed felt hat for himself and fellow prospectors out of waterproof beaver felt and when a bull whacker offered to buy it for $5.00, he realised he was on to something and with his health improved headed back east. Settling in Philadelphia in 1865 he rented a room and with a few employees started to produce a hat based on the Mexican sombrero. He called his hat Boss of the Plains, a name that immediately and indelibly tapped into the mythology of the frontier. By the time of his death in 1906 the John B Stetson hat company of Philadelphia was one of the largest in the world.

The Boss of the Plains was a wide-brimmed, high-crowned marvel that could handle sun, rain, wind, and the occasional bar fight. It wasn’t fancy, it was, like the West itself, unapologetically practical. Made from beaver fur felt for those that could afford it or more affordable rabbit fur, it was designed to be crushed, soaked, and reshaped without losing its soul.

And here’s the thing: the Boss of the Plains didn’t start out looking like the cowboy hats we know today. No curled brims, no pinched crowns. Those came later, shaped by individual wearers—ranchers, lawmen, and outlaws—each bending their hat into a personal signature. Think of it as the original customizable accessory, long before sneaker drops.

The dents and creases were sufficiently different from each other to acquire a name, from the obvious such as the ‘pinch front’ and ‘ridge top’ to the less obviously descriptive ‘Gus’ or ‘Dakota’. The most traditional and popular style is the ‘Cattleman’, featuring three creases in the crown and a slight downward curl to the front of the brim.

Somewhere along the trail, the Stetson stopped being just a hat and became shorthand for the American West. Eventually, it became so iconic that people started calling any cowboy hat a “Stetson,” whether it was one or not. That’s when you know you’ve made it—when your brand becomes a generic noun, like “thermos” or “Google,” but with more dust.

And then came Hollywood: More than any other nation, Americans have formed their perception of themselves through the medium of the movies—and the cowboy hat rode straight into that narrative. Early Western film super stars like Tom Mix and William Boyd (better known as Hopalong Cassidy) didn’t just wear Stetsons—they performed them. The hat tilted just so. The brim casting the perfect shadow. The crown framing a square jaw that had never known indecision.

Suddenly, the Stetson wasn’t just a hat. It was identity. Heroism. A moral compass you could wear on your head.

But one shouldn’t think of the Stetson as a purely male accessory.  From Victorian-era sharpshooter Annie Oakley to music legend Dolly Parton, sex goddess Brigitte Bardot to Texas-born music phenomenon Beyoncé, some remarkable women have also added their glamour to a cowpuncher’s headgear.

Let’s address the elephant—or rather, the water tank—in the room: the ten-gallon hat. The Boss of the Plains might be big but not that big.  The term likely comes from mistranslation of the Spanish galón, meaning braid or decorative band around a sombrero, not a unit of volume. The hat was however sufficiently copious that you could give your thirsty horse a refreshing swig from it, as Stetson’s early advertising illustrated.

The Stetson didn’t just crown cowboys—it crowned presidents too. Theodore Roosevelt famously wore one during his time leading the Rough Riders during the Spanish-American War, cementing the hat’s association with boldness and frontier grit.

Decades later, Lyndon B. Johnson made the Stetson part of his personal brand. Johnson’s version leaned more rancher than cavalry, but the message was the same: authority, authenticity, and a touch of Texas swagger. Ronald Reagan wore Stetsons both as an actor and as President, even presenting one to President Gorbachev of Russia, who looked well pleased when the pair posed for a photo-op.

The Stetson also found a natural home in Country and Western music, where authenticity is currency and image matters almost as much as sound. From honky-tonk stages to stadium tours, the hat became a visual shorthand for storytelling rooted in dirt roads, heartbreak, and pickup trucks that may or may not start on the first try.

It’s hard to imagine the genre without it. Take away the Stetson, and suddenly everyone looks like they wandered in from a coffee shop open-mic night.

If you thought the Stetson might fade into nostalgia, think again. The enormous popularity of the TV series Yellowstone—along with its prequels 1883 and 1923—has given Western wear, and the Stetson in particular, a serious boost. Viewers aren’t just watching the drama; they’re shopping the look.

Suddenly, urban closets are making room for wide brims and tall crowns. People who have never saddled a horse are confidently adjusting their hats as if they might need to at any moment. It might be cosplay but it’s also a testament to the enduring power of the Western image.

So why does the Stetson endure?Because it’s more than fashion. It’s a story you can wear. A link to a past that may be partly myth, partly movie script, but still feels real enough to touch. It represents independence, resilience, and the idea—deeply American—that you can shape yourself, just like those early cowboys shaped their hats. And let’s be honest: it looks fantastic.

Whether it’s made from premium beaver felt or humble rabbit fur, whether it’s pristine or weather-beaten, the Stetson carries a certain attitude. It doesn’t ask for attention. It assumes it.

So, the next time you see someone in a battered pickup, a Stetson pulled low against the sun, remember you’re not just looking at a hat. You’re looking at a century and a half of history, myth, and style—all sitting comfortably on one very confident head.

Models were street cast around the Los Angles and dressed in Vintage Denim.