Are You A ‘Visor Guy?’

I’m about to make the leap that separates the Luke Donalds from the Luke Guthries, the Brandt Snedekers from the Bryce Molders: I’m going to buy a visor.

This golf course fashion statement is not one I take lightly. I’ve never been a visor guy, and only occasionally would I consider myself a hat guy. It might stem back to my formative years, when a visor trend swept through my high school and unleashed atrocities like this. Also, once you’ve worn either a hat or a visor, it’s hard to make the cross-over: visor enthusiast Keegan Bradley just looks odd in a flat-brimmed cap, and Jim Furyk would look absurd in an open-topped visor.

So if I’m going full visor, I do have a decision to make: go with the wide-brimmed wonder or the more athletic modern visor. The first was made famous by guys like Fred Couples and is still somehow worn by Snedeker. The latter is Luke Donald’s version, more slim and hat-like. No matter what, I’m certainly staying away from the visor-and-hair combo, which is funny in the same way that whoopee cushions and “Big Johnson” t-shirts are funny.

If those are my choices, I’m going with the athletic visor. I can’t pull off the wider look; I’m not half the man that Tommy Armour III is. But here’s the weird thing about wearing a visor — you’ve really got to own it. A Yankees hat says, “I like the Yankees and baseball.” A Titleist hat says, “I like golf.”

But a visor, no matter what logo is on it, just says, “I’m the kind of guy who wears visors.” Am I that kind of guy? I don’t know. But I’m about to tighten this Velcro and find out.