In the late nights on Melrose, bands didn’t come in with entourages or credit cards. They came in, buying what they could afford — hair dye, a T-shirt, a wristband, etc.

Guns N’ Roses were regulars. Not icons. Just hungry, loud, becoming.

One day, a shipment of black felt top hats came in. Solid. American-made. $75 — real money back then.

Slash “borrowed” it for a show.

Not borrowed like paperwork borrowed — borrowed like instinct borrowed.

The kind of borrowing where the object chooses you before you choose it.

That hat went onstage.

And in that moment, it stopped being merchandise.

It became silhouette.

Symbol.

History.

At another show, the hat disappeared. Someone stole it.

No outrage. No chase. Just the quiet understanding that sometimes the universe collects interest.

He felt it was karma for borrowing the first one.

So he came back to Retail Slut and bought a second hat. Same company. Same quality. Still made in America. No shortcuts. No knockoffs. No excuses.

Because this place wasn’t about taking — it was about respecting the source.

Somewhere out there, the first hat still exists.

In a closet. A box. A wall. A life that may never know what it holds.