The purpose of yarn is not just to look pretty
I have learned to spin my own yarn. (Not that that's stopped me from buying more yarn. But I have spindles and I have a spinning wheel. So, in addition to the lifetime supply of yarn that I've purchased, I've been accumulating skeins of hand-spun yarn, as I hone my skills (and accumulate more semi-processed fiber to spin). While acquiring a new skill is worthwhile in its own right, this shouldn't be the only goal. Spinning yarn produces, well, a product—yarn, and this yarn is potentially of use.
So, yesterday, as I realized that I really need a new hat, one that will keep my ears warm, I pulled out some of my handspun, three small skeins of some maroon Romney wool. (Part of being a spinner is that breeds of sheep and the properties of their wool matter; wool is no longer a sufficient designator.)
This yarn has been marinating in my stash since June. Rather than make a generic hat, as I'd made with my very first handspun, I decided on a pattern, Coronet, that I'd had my eye on for a while. This hat consists of a cabled band, out of which the remainder of the hat is built.
Because this is "beginner yarn"—yarn that is uneven in ways that would be obvious to a knitter or to a spinner, if not to a random "muggle"—, I decide to average some of these out by holding the yarn double for the cable band. I started the band last night, and I'm about half done now. The fabric is, as I'd expected, quite firm, but the cables, if I must say so myself, look very even and nice.
Now, all I have to worry about is having enough yarn. Because this is handspun yarn, it's unique. There is no more. But that's OK. The yarn looks much nicer knit up into a hat than it did sitting in an opaque bin.