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The chicken hat would mean fresh eggs in the morning and the owl hat has mysterious allure, but Frigg keeps coming back to the toucan boater. Maybe it’s their beaks and feathers. Maybe it’s their eyes.

“An excellent choice, ma’am,” smiles the lady at the counter, and reaches up to her pelican’s gullet to dig around for change.

“Finally done?” grumbles Odin, waiting outside. “I still don’t see why you can’t just keep them on your shoulders like a normal Æsir.”

Frigg pulls the tag off; a toucan yelps. “Because, dear heart,” she says, “I don’t want shit on my lapels.”