Fashion Masochist: The Extreme Headband

Ever since high-end designers reintroduced the headband a few years back, the former preppy staple has grown increasingly and unapologetically flashy. Now jeweled, crownlike bands—officially called diadems, as traced back to biblical coronations—by the likes of Chanel and Fred Leighton are gracing the heads of fashionable boldfacers such as Lindsay Lohan, Rihanna, and Lucy Liu, to name a few.

The Experience I choose a wreath of metallic gold leaves that's plain enough for day; to eliminate any painful head-hugging, I wear it tilted toward the back of my long blond curls. Jeans and a turtleneck get an instant dose of Greek flair. Excepting the eye rolls from one or two out-of-touch male coworkers, friends and colleagues agree that the gold is flattering against my pale skin and light hair, and surprisingly versatile. One coos that I remind her of Princess Buttercup from The Princess Bride. Hipsters, in particular, dig the crown: At a house party packed with skinny-jeaned dudes and the Pabst-drinking ladies who love them, my accessory is universally acknowledged with an enthusiastic can raise or a slurred "cooool hair thing." I feel royally confident.

For the company holiday bash, I pull out the big guns, trading my everyday diadem for a purple and pink gem-encrusted band that sits more prominently across the forehead and clasps tightly in back. Paired with a simple strapless black dress, it makes me feel like a princess—though not for long. One office heavyweight tells me I look ridiculous. No matter how trendy, he says, one needs to own a private jet and keep at least $250 million in the bank to pull off a crown. (Is this his way of telling me I'm getting a whopper of a raise? I ask. The joke falls flat.) A colleague, piling on, says the whimsical colors make me resemble My Little Pony.

A couple of glasses of champagne later—and power thus restored—I take to the dance floor. I feel fierce, but am forced to remove the headgear during a twirling session with the company president lest it fly off and injure one of the corporate bigwigs—or worse, one of their wives.

The next morning, my aching head is thrilled to be back under the looser Helen of Troy–inspired band, and I plan to sport it for the rest of the week. Nine days later, I pass my editor in the hallway. "You're still wearing that thing?" he asks. "I think you're enjoying it a little too much."

The Verdict That night, I am reminded of his comment when, washing up before bed, I notice that though I've changed into my pajamas, I've failed to decrown. Okay, maybe I am hooked. But if the addiction makes me feel at once regal, empowered, and ahead of the curve—all without any unhealthy side effects—this is one fabulous habit.