The Crown Makers: Historic and Contemporary Black-owned Milliners
Kolumn Magazine
On certain Sundays in Black America, a hat is not an accessory so much as an announcement.
It enters the room a half-second before the wearer—wide brim first, then the ribbon’s quiet logic, then the feather that seems to have been persuaded into place rather than attached. In the best examples, the hat does what architecture does: it directs attention, establishes scale, implies ceremony. The body becomes a building. The aisle becomes a runway. And for a few hours, in sanctuaries and fellowship halls and repurposed storefronts, the world’s hierarchy feels rearranged.
That rearranging has always been part of the Black milliner’s work. The popular story of American fashion still tends to treat hats as a seasonal flourish—here for Easter, gone by summer—or as a quaint relic from the era when men wore fedoras to work and women wore pillboxes to lunch. But in the places where Black milliners have made their living, hats have been a persistent technology: of self-definition, of respectability politics navigated and subverted, of grief ritualized, of joy engineered.
And, crucially, of entrepreneurship.
Because the hat business—unlike most mythologies about glamour—has always been about money: who can borrow it, who can lease space, who can buy felt in bulk, who can afford to stock trims that might not sell for months, who can withstand a slow season. Millinery is art, but it is also inventory management and customer acquisition and—particularly for Black women and men who were denied easy access to mainstream credit—creative finance.