For most people (my mom and the Lifetime channel) royal wedding frenzy is about living a vicarious Cinderella dream or whatever; for me, it is the dream that somewhere, someday, maybe I, too, can strap a lily pad on my head. Few occasions exist on American soil in which hats, much less fascinators, are legitimate daywear for non-church-goers: 1) if you are competing in RuPaul’s Drag Race; 2) if you are Miss Tina Knowles Lawson at the Kentucky Derby; 3) if you are in Williamsburg, and then only amongst Miranda July fans. I want to transform my body into flower stem; my face, a rooster; my spirit, the wind beneath wings. I want a party on my head, you guys.
Barring that, we can peruse the pool noodles, potpourri, hairballs, frisbees, fascinators, casks, netting, sinamay, boaters and sailors, yannys, laurels, and fashion crimes* which graced and disgraced the noble domes of England today where anything is possible.
*For any meaningful analysis of fashion statements, I defer to Jezebel’s royal family authority Kelly Faircloth, who’s reporting live from the scene.
Assortment of hats.
Frouf on hat.
A great many hats
Hats
Hats!
Oh my god, that last hat.
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