In the central Turkish province of Aksaray, 80-year-old Mustafa Mollaoğlu, a Bulgarian-born immigrant, stands as one of the last masters of a dying profession — traditional cap making.
“I have worked for 60 years, but after me, no one will continue this craft. For an artisan, that is a great loss,” Mollaoğlu told ANKA News Agency.
Mollaoğlu has been sewing and selling handmade caps for six decades, keeping alive a trade that once thrived across Turkey. Born in Bulgaria, he began learning the craft in Istanbul in 1957 at the age of 14 and has devoted his entire life to it since then.
Sitting behind his old sewing machine, he recounted:
“I have never done any other job in my life — I have always made caps. The production work is so demanding that you are busy from morning till night. For 60 years, this is all I’ve done.”
After completing his apprenticeship in Istanbul between 1957 and 1964, he returned to Aksaray following military service and established his own workshop, where he has since produced thousands of caps entirely by hand.
He said the price of his handmade caps ranges between 350 and 500 Turkish lira, while casual caps sell for 100 to 250 lira and ready-made felt hats can cost up to 600 lira.
“The biggest issue today isn’t price — it’s lack of interest. People used to wear caps all the time, but now very few do. Instead of paying 400 lira for a handmade one, they buy a ready-made cap for 100. I can’t blame them — the economy is difficult for everyone. But no one has ever complained about my work. I use quality fabric, do everything myself, and never compromise on craftsmanship,” he said.
“I can barely thread the needle anymore”
Describing the meticulous process of hat making, Mollaoğlu explained:
“It takes about an hour and a half to make a single cap, from cutting the fabric to finishing the lining. Everything is handmade — we cut the material, sew the top, prepare the lining, and steam-press it before it’s ready for sale. But now, I can barely thread the needle — my eyesight is failing. There’s no one to assist me. Maybe life is telling me to slow down, but my heart doesn’t want to stop.”
Regretting that no one will inherit his trade, Mollaoğlu said:
“I wish I had trained an apprentice. I could have supervised him and kept the business alive, but it didn’t happen. There’s little interest in handicrafts here in Aksaray, and that’s my greatest sorrow. I have worked for 60 years, but after me, this craft will disappear. For a craftsman, that is a profound loss.”
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