Babushka

Mango trench
Uniqlo shirt
Zara jeans (similar)
Rouje boots (similar)
Vintage Birks handbag (similar)
Burberry scarf
Celine sunglasses
Stella & Dot ring
Location: Galerie Vivienne – Paris, France

Paris, October 9, 2021

Dear friends,

I’m curious – what do you call a headscarf? I’m guessing that you’re gazing at your computer screen, slightly perplexed by the fact that I would ask that question, thinking to yourself, A headscarf, of course. What else would I call it?

If, like me, you grew up in Manitoba with a (part-)Ukrainian parent, you might call it a babushka. That’s what we called it in my house. The word babushka means grandma in Ukrainian, but the use of it to refer to headscarves, specifically scarves folded into a triangular shape and knotted under the chin, is so common that if you Google it, you’ll find entries for both definitions.

The use of the term babushka to refer to a headscarf always seemed funny to me. I understand there is actually significant historical context that contributed to this new definition. But I’ve never been to Ukraine, and know only about five other words of the language, most of them for foods, so that context is all new to me now, as I’m doing scattered bits of research to write this letter to you. For me, as a kid, the implication in the words for grandma and headscarf being the same was that only old ladies wore headscarves. My experience in the world suggested that my conclusion was accurate. My grandma and great aunts were, indeed, the only women I ever knew who wore headscarves. They were crucial to protecting their carefully set hair between weekly salon visits.

I’m an adult now, of course. And pretty disconnected from my Ukrainian heritage at this stage of my life. It’s true that we still make as big a deal of Easter as Christmas most years, and eat more perogies than the average family, but that’s the extent of it. I don’t think the word babushka had crossed my mind for a decade, until I knotted this silk scarf over my hair on this sunny but damp Saturday morning in Paris. It was an entirely practical decision – by covering my hair, I hoped, I might save my curls from the humidity. (The humidity tends to lead them, improbably, to both flatten and expand outward.) It occured to me, looking in the mirror, that I looked a bit like my grandma. And beyond that, that I was putting my headscarf, or babushka, on for exactly the same reasons she did.

My grandma was many things, but in the time of her life when I knew her, a fashionista was not one of them. She had definite ideas about style, though, favouring blazers, often in a bold shade of red – she was a card carrying member of the Liberal Party of Canada and liked to wear their colour. Unlike mine, her headscarf was entirely practical. Navy blue and plastic coated, it kept rain and snow at bay, which was what mattered. The look was not what one might call stylish. But it demonstrated the pride my grandma took in her personal appearance which, I confess that I’m not sure, based on how often I default to wearing sweatpants and putting my hair in a bun, I can truly say that I’ve managed to emulate.

I learned, this morning in Paris, that silk scarves, while gentle on hair, don’t do much to keep moisture out. My hair suffered its usual fate, despite the layer of protection. But I am less practical than my grandma was by far. My babushka… well, headscarf… looked lovely, so I kept it on, embracing the unique, if unusual, vibe it gave to my otherwise very classic outfit. Personally, I don’t think the look evokes grandmas so much as old Hollywood starlets, but we see the world through the lens of our own experiences, so I suppose it’s open to interpretation. A visit to Ukraine isn’t high on my travel wishlist, despite my familial connection to the country. Still, I do wonder, now, how different this outfit might look against an Eastern European backdrop.

Shop the Post