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15 Old-Fashioned Hats We Should Bring Back

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Whether we wear them to stay warm, protect our heads, hide our hair, or simply add flair to our ensembles, hats have always been a celebrated part of our wardrobes. Here are 15 once-iconic toppers that have fallen out of fashion—and should be brought back into style. 

1. THE SNOOD 

Don’t call this knotted headdress a hair net—it’s actually a snood. In the late 1850s and early 1860s, it was in vogue for young women to hold their hair back with close-fitting, bag-shaped caps they’d woven from velvet, lace, yarn, or other materials.

The trend faded by the 1870s, but the snood made a comeback in the 1940s after female factory workers realized it added both practicality and panache to their work ensembles. The hat fell to the wayside once more after World War II ended and women returned to the domestic sphere.

2. THE CARTWHEEL HAT 

Resembling a flying saucer affixed to one’s head, the cartwheel hat is a wide-brimmed circular or saucer-shaped topper that first became popular in the 1930s. It was typically worn at a rakish angle, and it was usually fashioned from materials like straw, felt, silk, or taffeta.

To our modern sensibilities, the cartwheel hat may seem bizarre, and records indicate that the look also perplexed the public when it was first debuted. “Do not be astounded if you notice a smartly gowned woman crowned with a hat of huge proportions, for she is but following fashion’s latest edict,” one 1914 newspaper article noted. “The new large hats are broad brimmed and have low crowns, which are not discernible when the hat is worn, hence they resemble cartwheels tilted at a becoming angle.”

3. THE TRI-CORNER HAT

If you’ve ever seen a portrait of George Washington, chances are good that he was wearing a tri-corner hat, or a tricorn. 17th-century European and American men of all social classes wore these hats because the brim turned up on three sides, allowing them to show off their stylish wigs. The hats were also small, which allowed polite gentlemen to take them off and tuck them underneath their arms when entering a building.   

Tricorners were either left plain or festooned with feathers, brocades, silks, or metallic fabrics. They often came in neutrals like black, grey, and tan. 

4. CLOCHE HAT 

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Famous flappers were fans of the cloche—a fitted, bell-shaped hat that took Roaring Twenties style by storm. Invented in Paris, the cloche became popular among both European and American women during the 1920s. The hat fit neatly over a short bob, and its simplicity allowed the era’s “modern women” to dance, socialize, and move with abandon. 

Today, women occasionally wear cloche-like styles. However, the hat still remains synonymous with the Jazz Age.

5. THE BOWLER HAT 

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In 1849, London hat makers Thomas and William Bowler created a toque that gamekeepers on horseback could wear to shield their heads from low hanging branches. With its close fit, low crown, and sturdy make, the bowler hat was way more practical than a top hat.

Over time, businessmen, politicians, and celebrities became fans of the look. By the mid 1950s to 1960s, it was common for men to incorporate bowler hats into their suited ensembles. The look became less common by the 1980s. However, British cavalry officers still traditionally wear bowler hats and suits for their annual parade. 

6. THE COONSKIN CAP 

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While it’s a myth that Davy Crockett wore a coonskin cap, they were indeed popular among American frontiersman during the late 18th century. Early pioneers saw Native Americans wearing the warm, fuzzy hats, and they adopted the look for themselves. Soon, the coonskin cap became inextricably linked with the rugged, individualistic American settler.

Like all iconic looks, changing cultural aesthetics caused the coonskin cap to dwindle in popularity. By 1902, the fuzzy hat wasn’t perceived as “rustic”—it was straight-up redneck. However, the look exploded in popularity once more when a TV show based on Crockett’s adventures premiered in 1954. 

Crockett fever faded in the 1960s, and the cap once more became a relic of a bygone era. However, bloggers report that a few brave souls have been spotted donning the coonskin cap while walking the streets of New York City’s SoHo and Williamsburg neighborhoods.  

7. THE DEERSTALKER HAT

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Not surprisingly, the deerstalker hat is worn for hunting. However, fictional detective Sherlock Holmes popularized the hat in the 19th century, trotting about in his novels clad in a cape and the smart headwear. Not surprisingly, the hat is most often worn by rural outdoorsmen—not by genteel city dwellers like Sherlock. 

8. BOATER HATS 

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British sailors in the 19th century donned hard, flat-topped hats made from water-resistant varnished straw. Later, English sportsmen wore the stiff-brimmed hats while rowing along the Thames. The look caught on, and by the 1890s, everyone was wearing boater hats—even girls and women, who were becoming more active in outdoor sports. 

Boater hats crossed the Atlantic, and were fashionable among middle-class men and college boys alike. During election campaigns, they were dressed up with red, white, and blue bands and transformed into political symbols. 

9. THE PILLBOX HAT 

The pillbox hat was a simple, elegant, and no-frills accessory hat that was popular from the 1930s through the late 1960s. The round, brim-less hats were worn perched on top of the head. True to their name, they were also shaped like a pillbox.

10. THE HENNIN 

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Those pointy medieval princess hats with veils have a name: They’re called hennins. Worn by European royalty, the tall, stiff hats were fashioned from expensive fabric and girded with wire or padding. In France, some hennins reached heights of up to three feet. However, English versions of the hennin were smaller and less dramatic.

11. THE FASCINATOR

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Unless you’re running with a royal crowd, fascinators probably aren’t on your radar. But they should be: these decorative headpieces can be as simple or as elaborate as you’d like. All around the world—going way back to ancient times—women have dressed up their locks using feathers, cloth, flowers, and more, creating fascinator-like looks.  Our favorite is probably the 13th century ramshorn, which involved a headband-brooch combo, plus two coiled buns reminiscent of a certain science fiction heroine.

12. THE BICORNE HAT 

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In the late 18th century, European and American military and naval officers (think Napoleon Bonaparte) wore bicornes. The hat had a broad, floppy brim, and its front and back section were folded over and pinned together. This feature made the accessory less cumbersome and easier to carry. 

13. THE CALASH 

The sky-high hairdos of the late 18th century demanded equally lofty protection. Massive bonnets called “Calashes” fit the bill. Each had wood or whalebone sewn in for stability, but the super tall toppers were collapsible, too.

14. THE PHRYGIAN CAP 

The Phrygian cap is most commonly associated with freed Roman slaves, who wore a variant of the soft, pointy hat to symbolize their independence. The hat was later adopted as a symbol of liberty during the French revolution.

15. THE BALMORAL BONNET 

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This floppy, tasseled beret was named after Queen Victoria’s Scottish estate, Balmoral Castle. The traditional hat is worn tilted sideways, and is typically paired with Scottish highland dress.

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History
The Day Notre Dame Students Pummeled the Ku Klux Klan
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At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the men who stepped off the train in South Bend, Indiana on the morning of May 17, 1924. Dapper and mannered, they drifted from the station to the downtown area. Some headed for a nearby office that sported a red cross made out of light bulbs stationed in the window. Others roamed around looking for Island Park, the site of a planned social gathering.

A closer look at these visitors revealed one common trait: Many were carrying a folded white robe under their arm. Those who had arrived earlier were fully clothed in their uniform and hood, directing automobile traffic to the park.

The Ku Klux Klan had arrived in town.

Fresh off a controversial leadership election in Indianapolis, Indiana, there was no reason for Klansmen to have any apprehension about holding a morale booster in South Bend. Indiana was Klan territory, with an estimated one in three native born white men sworn members within state lines. Just a few months later, Klansman Ed Jackson would be elected governor.

It was only when Klansmen found themselves guided into alleys and surrounded by an irate gang of Catholic students from nearby Notre Dame University that they realized mobilizing in South Bend may have been a very bad idea.

The Klan wanted a rally. What they got was a full-scale riot.

Photo of KKK Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
By IndyStar, Decemeber 12, 1922 issue, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Politically-endorsed prejudice was the order of the day in the early part of the 20th century, when the Klan—first created in 1866 to oppose Republican Reconstruction with violent racial enmity and then revived in 1915—expanded its tentacles to reach law enforcement and civil service. No longer targeting people of color exclusively, the KKK took issue with Catholics, the Jewish faith, and immigrants. An estimated 4 million Americans belonged to the Klan in the 1920s, all echoing the group’s philosophy that only white, God-fearing citizens were worthy of respect.

Under the guidance of Indiana's Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson, the group had attempted to shift public perception from the lynch mobs of the past to an orderly and articulate assembly. Rallies were held in KKK-friendly areas; propaganda material was becoming an effective weapon for their cause. Acceptance of the Klan’s ideology seeped into political office; Stephenson was a prominent Indiana politician.

To help continue that indoctrination, the Klan made plans for a parade in South Bend to be held on May 17, 1924. That it would be in close proximity to the Notre Dame campus was no mistake: At the time, 75 percent of the school's nearly 2000 students were Catholic, a religion the Klan found abhorrent. By pledging allegiance to the Vatican, their reasoning went, Catholics were acknowledging a foreign power. In the fall of 1923, they had persisted in setting crosses on fire near the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio, a predominantly Catholic college, and were frequently chased off by angered football players. That December, the Klan set off firebombs in Dayton during Christmas break. While no one was seriously injured, the intent was to send a message—one they wanted to spread to Indiana.

In the weeks and months leading up to the parade, both students and faculty began to get a taste of that perspective. Copies of the Fiery Cross, the official Klan newspaper, circulated on campus; one Klansman showed up at an auditorium to broadcast that Catholics were not good Americans. He exited the stage when attendees began throwing potatoes at him.

If that public response was foreshadowing, the Klan either ignored or failed to heed the warning. Members began arriving the Friday evening prior to the rally and were met at the train station by irritated students, who scuffled with the early arrivals by ripping their robes. By Saturday morning, when more Klansmen arrived, hundreds of students were in town, a loosely organized anti-Klan task force.

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Klan members were used to breezing into towns without incident. Here, they were immediately confronted by young, ornery college kids proud of their Catholicism. Klansmen were led into alleys and tossed into walls; students who played for the school’s legendary football squad formed wedges, the offensive line-ups found on the field, and plowed into groups of Klan members like they were challenging for a state title.

The violence, swift and sudden, prompted the Klan to retreat to their headquarters in South Bend. The students followed, their blood pumping hot at the sight of the red cross lit in the office window. Below it stood a grocery store with barrels of fresh potatoes. The students lobbed them at the glass, smashing the bulbs inside.

The conflict had been uninterrupted by law enforcement, but not for lack of trying. Deputy Sheriff John Cully, himself a Klansman, tried to enlist the National Guard but was shot down by officials. Notre Dame president Matthew Walsh had already implored students not to go into town, but his words went unheeded.

Unencumbered by authority, the 100 or so students idling near the Klan’s office decided they wanted to seize the hideout. Dozens began running up the stairs but were greeted by a Klan member who produced a gun. Unarmed, the students backed off. Four seniors went back and came to an impromptu truce: The student body would disperse if the Klan agreed to hold their rally without weapons or their robes.

The agreement seemed to placate both sides until Stephenson finally arrived in town before the parade’s scheduled 6:30 p.m. start. Assessing the roughed-up Klansmen and their skittish behavior, he complained to the police, who posted officers on horseback around their assembly at Island Park.

But there would be no rally: A heavy downpour prompted Stephenson to call it off, although the potential for further violence likely weighed on his mind. Lingering students who still hadn’t returned to campus met departing Klansmen as they attempted to drive out of town, smashing windows and even tipping over one car.

By Sunday, things seemed to have settled down. Walsh cringed at newspaper reports of the incidents, fearing it would portray the students as thugs.

Unfortunately, neither side was done protesting. And when they met a second time, the robed men would be backed up by lawman Cully and a squad of 30 deputized Klansmen.

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Students back on campus Monday had taken to hanging up seized Klan robes and hoods on their walls like trophies. It had been a rout, with the Klan barely putting up a fight.

Now, word was spreading through the halls that the Klan had captured or perhaps had even killed a Notre Dame student. Roughly 500 students jogged the two miles back into South Bend, eager for another confrontation.

When they arrived at the Klan’s headquarters, the light bulb cross had been rebuilt. It was an act of defiance, and the students moved forward. But the Klan was prepared: Many had been deputized, and uniformed officers joined the melee. Axe handles and bottles were brandished, and blood began to stain the street. It was a clash, with parties on both sides laid out.

When he got word of the conflict, Walsh rushed to the site and climbed on top of a cannon that was part of a monument. Shouting to be heard, he implored students to return to campus. His voice cut through the sounds of breaking glass, snapping the students out of their reverie. They returned to the school.

Absent any opposition, the Klan did the same. Stragglers from out of town returned home. With bombastic prose, writers for the Fiery Cross later recapped the event by accusing Notre Dame students of “beating women and children.” Later that summer, they declared they’d be returning to South Bend in greater number.

It never happened. Although the Klan maintained an aura of strength for several more years, the conviction of Stephenson for raping and murdering a woman in November 1925 extinguished one of their most enthusiastic leaders; the Depression dampened the ability of new recruits to pay dues. By 1930, the Klan was down to an estimated 45,000 members.

While Walsh never condoned the vigilante justice exacted that weekend, he never disciplined a single student for it.

Additional Sources:
Notre Dame vs. the Klan, by Todd Tucker (Loyola Press, 2004)
"Hearing the Silence: The University of Dayton, the Ku Klux Klan, and Catholic Universities and Colleges in the 1920s" [PDF], by William Vance Trollinger

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History
Why the Berlin Wall Rose and Fell
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One of history's most notorious barriers broke ground early in the morning on August 13, 1961, when East German construction workers, guarded by soldiers and police, began tearing up the Berlin streets.

As European history professor Konrad H. Jarausch explains in this video from Ted-Ed, the roots of the Berlin Wall can be found in the period of instability that followed World War II. When the Allies couldn't decide how to govern Germany, they decided to split up the country between the Federal Republic of Germany in the West and the German Democratic Republic in the East. Eventually, citizens (especially young professionals) began fleeing the GDR for the greater freedoms—and higher salaries—of the West. The wall helped stem the tide, and stabilized the East German economy, but came at great cost to the East's reputation. In the end, the wall lasted less than three decades, as citizen pressures against it mounted.

You can learn more about exactly why the wall went up, and how it came down, in the video below.

[h/t The Kid Should See This]

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