I HAVE a big head. Hold up, put away that chisel, there’s no need to take me down a peg or two; really, there isn’t. I’m on the lowest peg, with only washing beneath me. Truly, I pride myself on not having a boastful bone in my body. And even that’s almost a conceit too far.

For once, there’s no metaphor, simile or allegorical device in my opener this week. I’m hanging on to the literal with all the grasp of a mollusc in a maths class. Well, almost. For where my vanity falls short, my physiology more than steps up – and it drags my huge head with it. Yep, there’s no two ways about it, mainly because once you’ve gone the first way around my bonce, you’re far too tired to attempt a second. I’m just a slave to a big old noggin.

I guess it’s a genetic thing, since it’s probably no coincidence that half my family’s heads have their own orbiting moons. Over the years I’ve heard a variety of explanations for its bulk, my favourite being the bump of knowledge posited by my doting gran when I was little – or at least most of me was anyway. And while I’d love to accept that my generous skull ballooned to accommodate the girth of an expansive frontal lobe, I just don’t have the appropriate Thank You card for such a gift.

These days, my odd dimensions no longer bother me. Sure, 36-24-36 is all well and good but there’s no use in hourglass when you’re sporting one hell of a clock face. Like my anxiety and every twitch and trait it brought, my shape for all its inadequacies no longer has bearing on my outlook, except on those days when I can’t fit through the door of the observatory.

I’m happy with my lot, even when my lot is disproportionately sized, and really there’s never much of a reason for me to even consider my head’s bearing on a situation – except, of course, when the destination is hat-making.

Sally-Ann Provan is Edinburgh’s answer to the question of how to get ahead in millinery. The award-nominated creative didn’t just get herself a hat though, she made it her business to get one for everyone. Sally’s incredible resume is well beyond my word count but it’s enough to say that while her career path didn’t begin in bonnets, it charged towards chapeaux in the end. Well, okay, I’ll say just a little bit more; she’s far too interesting not to. Initially completing her studies in jewellery design, our talented protagonist dabbled in sculpture and paper conservation, before finding her feet, so to speak, in headwear.

You could, of course, be forgiven for thinking that the work of a milliner is old hat nowadays; you could, but you aren’t. Sally’s handiwork has not only featured in books, films and album covers, it’s topped the head of the First Minister, sashayed the catwalk at London Fashion Week, and pirouetted up a storm with Scottish Ballet. And there’s good reason for the success that has taken Sally and her work to museums and theatres across the world; outside even her training under the Queen Mother’s milliner and with The Royal Opera House. When you meet her, it’s clear to see, the lady has a head for hats and she’s not scared to use it.

The Edinburgh Hat Studio, Sally’s showroom and workshop, is exactly what you’d expect from a hat studio, if, like me, you have no idea what to expect of a hat studio. I pulled up at the sprawling Beaverhall Studios, all red brick and promise, with no knowledge of what was beyond. Instead of a river of running cocoa and an imprisoned race of green-haired labourers, the former Duncan’s Chocolate Factory hosts a variety of creative businesses within its sweet-smelling walls, from clay works and yoga to sewing bees for novices. Basically, if you need a new outfit or a new outlook, this is the place to be.

Stepping into the hat studio does for the eyes what the chocolate lingering in the corridors does for the psychosomatics. Shapes and lines of myriad beauty; elegance and colour and warmth. It’s a world all of its own, behind an ordinary door, and it invites you to look upon its riches and delight. Of course, I couldn’t help engaging the more somatic sense too, as I reached out to fondle a feather and run fingers through ribbon, wondering if all visitors to the showroom are quite so annoyingly tactile.

As a designer of both bespoke and ready-to-wear collections, Sally’s process, she explained, has a social element that I hadn’t foreseen. Her clients are as present as to be welcomed into the studio for consultations and fittings or as remote as emailing photos and sharing samples in the post from the other side of the planet. Whichever distance works best, for those commissioned creations, the customer is as involved in the planning as possible. And, while not quite the usual Ascot and bride-to-be crowd, this interloper wanted all the buttons and bows right on her person.

After handling more headgear than an orthodontist on commission, it was time to learn the very basics of this stylish profession. The first thing to note is that we were surrounded by heads or, as Sally corrected me, hat blocks. Wooden or foam, the blocks are custom-made by only a handful of specialist manufacturers and, once constructed, can last a milliner a lifetime. Pick a block to fit the concept, whether cocktail or alcohol-free, then, joy of joys, there are fabrics to forage.

Mainly, Sally works with straw, felt and sinamay – a woven material from the stalks of the abaca tree – but her colours are her own, as each pillbox and saucer is dyed in-house. Vibrant and dynamic, like the pieces she produces, Sally’s flair for shades and balance is as obvious as the sparkle she exudes. It’s difficult not to enjoy her instruction so it’s little wonder Edinburgh College of Art has snapped Sally up to provide regular input to their degree courses. The one-to-one lesson continued as my tutor showed me how to layer the sinamay for different appearance and rigidity, then the methods of moulding and pinning the cloth to the block, in what could be diagnosed as an anger management technique. Once the fabric has taken the desired contours, pieces can be added to extend the brim, to change the outline or, as with all good art, for decorative purposes only.

I spent a wonderful morning with Scottish Opera’s milliner, among flowers and beads that would make a haber dash but, in the end, it was clear that the best way for me to conclude my hat-making adventure was to try some of Sally’s finest on for size – or at least that’s how I sold it at the time. Nerve-racking though it was to test the boundaries of my cranium in public, when the teal perching saucer was in place, I felt fancier than a dress at Hallowe’en.

While I can’t say my own cap will ever fit stage or screen, just having such a glorious hat match its proportions made this big head very proud indeed.