If you have a passion for fashion, enjoy exotic headgear, or, if you, like me, just happen to go outside once in a while, then there is a good chance that you, too, have crossed paths with the “crochet skullcap.” Cobweb-thin and dainty, they come in as many colors as Joseph’s coat and just as many stitch patterns. Some have little stars or pom-poms on the fringe. Some even have brims, like a lampshade but for your head.
I had never seen one of these creations until a few months ago. For reasons I cannot disclose, I was walking down Carnaby Street, a famous shopping mecca in London’s SoHo neighborhood, squinting down at Google Maps when some spirit — maybe God — compelled me to look up. Before me in the afternoon glare stood a glimmering seraph. She was tall and gleaming, sliding languidly down the street like a cheetah on a runway. And on her head she wore … a yarmulke?! I blinked and shook myself. When I looked again, she was gone.
But her image had burned itself into my memory like acid on copper. Specifically that yarmulke of hers. It was like a lilac doily, but with more structural integrity. It was also bigger than the average yarmulke. Whereas your standard yarmulke is around bald-spot-sized, this woman’s yarmulke was big enough to engulf her whole cranium.
Back in America, preliminary Googling revealed that part of the reason the woman’s yarmulke was so big and purple was that it was not a yarmulke at all, but a “crochet skullcap.” A Vogue article addressed the very question that was plaguing me: “Why Is Everyone Wearing a Tiny Crochet Skullcap?” Everyone, that is, who attended Copenhagen Spring Fashion Week 2026, where apparently everybody “got the memo to wear a tiny crochet skullcap.” Had they all unexpectedly converted to Judaism?
Attendees at Copenhagen Fashion Week 2026 who got the crochet-cap memo. Photo by Paul Gonzales/Getty Images
The article offered alternative theories: Perhaps the artisanal, handmade connotations of crochet (even when mass-produced) appealed to Danish dames; perhaps these head coverings were a symptom of nostalgia for the ’60s and ’70s, when crochet skullcaps were so popular among the freewheeling hippies that the original 2007 release of Julie Albright, the American Girl Doll emblematic of ’70s San Francisco, came with a tiny lilac skullcap of her own.
On the other hand, maybe the crochet skullcap’s ascendance was proof that the cultural pendulum was swinging conservative. I was deep into the article when I found what I had been looking for: my smoking gun, nestled between two parentheses. The crochet skullcap, one fashion expert noted, “is similar to religious head coverings, like the kufi and yarmulke.”
“HA!” I yelled. If there had been any birds in my kitchen, they would have scattered. So I wasn’t insane after all!
Further research revealed that these tiny crochet circlets contained great contradictions. How was it possible that hippy-dippy flower children had pulled up at Woodstock wearing more or less the same hat that other guys wore while praying three to five times a day? Among the religious demographic, the yarmulke and kufi symbolized modesty and humility before God. Among fashion-forward extremists, the crocheted skullcap — some of which sell online for more than $300 — symbolized chicness, even status. Such a paradox required the help of an expert. So I wrote to Janet Linville, the head milliner at the Metropolitan Opera and senior millinery instructor at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) with my question: What did this hat mean?
Unsurprisingly, there were many meanings. “This sort of head covering goes a long way back in history,” she wrote. “Similar caps were worn at night to ‘keep the spirits in (or out), to cover tempting hair, to show marital status, and for religious deference reasons.” On the off-chance the Copenhagen Fashion Week crowd wasn’t trying to keep spirits out or cover their tempting hair, Linville offered another theory: Perhaps it was just that “handmade crafted looks, such as embroidery and knitting have been more popular recently.” In other words, maybe people were just wearing something because it looked cool, not because they were tapping into a millennia-long monotheistic tradition. “I suppose there’s an argument to be made that we are living in more conservative times,” she wrote, “but crocheted skull caps were also popular in the permissive ’60s and ’70s.”
The crochet skull cap falls in step with a broader trend of cool-ifying symbols of tradition and even conservatism, such as the corset, the crucifix, the “prairie dress,” and the “milkmaid dress.” (Evie Magazine’s “Raw Milk Maid Dress” sparked furor in the tradwife community over what was viewed as an unpasteurized level of sexiness.) El País reports that from 2024 to 2025, online searches for knee-length skirts rose by 33%, equestrian boots by 39%, and gingham checks, a pattern some consider evocative of 1950s domesticity, by 33%.
But it is hard to know what people are thinking when they follow trends. Perhaps it is to promote one idea, or to subvert another. Perhaps it is because other people are doing it. Perhaps it is for no reason at all. For my part, I’m thinking of getting in on this trend while it’s hot. There’s a soccer-ball-themed yarmulke from my cousin’s bar mitzvah lying around the house somewhere. All I need to do now is punch a few holes.
