When the first set photos of Jiangshan Datong (江山大同) leaked online, audiences gasped. There stood Yang Mi (杨幂), her head topped with a hat that looked like a fancy food cover—strange branches sprouting upward, beads dangling at the edges. “Why so weird?” viewers asked. “No ancient drama has ever shown something like this!” But what if that bizarre headpiece is actually one of the most historically accurate costumes in recent memory?
The answer lies deep in the Northern Wei dynasty (北魏), in a city called Pingcheng (平城), where nomadic traditions and Han Chinese aesthetics first collided to create something truly extraordinary.
The Wind Hood
Let’s start with the hat’s base. It’s called a Chuiqun Fengmao (垂裙风帽)—a “hanging-skirt wind hood.” During the Northern Wei period, this was a unisex must-have, worn by everyone from royal warriors to street vendors. Yang Mi’s version, however, uses hardened leather instead of cloth, signaling aristocratic status. Excavations from Sima Jinlong (司马金龙) tomb yielded glazed pottery guards wearing almost identical round black hoods with two black flaps falling beside the ears. Similar pieces appear among Northern Zhou pottery figures from Xianyang (咸阳) Airport tombs. These flaps blocked wind and honored the Xianbei custom of “braided hair hanging to the shoulders.” Since TV dramas rarely touch this era, it’s no wonder modern eyes find the shape unfamiliar.
But here’s the twist: commoner versions were soft cloth. Yang Mi’s hat swaps that for a leather stiffened top—exactly what Northern Wei nobles used. Gold ornaments and colorful beads line the edges, matching historical records that said “nobles used gold as decoration and mixed pearls with jade.” Even wall paintings from the period show servant girls wearing simplified versions. So that “weird” base? It’s not a designer’s fantasy. It’s a faithful copy of a real sixth-century fashion statement.
What about those side pendants? They’re not random. The hood’s ear flaps mimic the Xianbei habit of letting braids show beneath the headgear. When you add golden chains and turquoise stones around the brim, you get exactly what the Book of Wei (魏书) described as “golden danglers decorating the head, pearl and jade pendants brushing the ears.” This hat didn’t come from a costumer’s wild dream. It came from a museum shelf.
The Golden Branches
Now for the “branches” on top. Many critics called them imaginary—some sort of primitive phoenix crown. Wrong again. Those branches descend directly from the Huashu Buyao Guan (花树步摇冠), or “flower-tree step-shake crown,” popular during the Wei and Jin dynasties. What does “step-shake” mean? Literally, every step makes the ornaments tremble. Excavated metal frames from tombs (the original fabric bases long rotted away) show a cross-shaped structure supporting tiny golden leaves. This was a hybrid innovation: the step-shake concept came from Central Plains traditions, while the animal and tree motifs borrowed from steppe nomads.
Take the gold step-shake crowns unearthed from Feng Sufu (冯素弗) tomb in Northern Yan (燕) and from Da Mao Qi (达茂旗) in Inner Mongolia. Most follow a cross-shaped base, but they don’t stop there. You’ll see deer, horses, and other grassland animals worked into the design, with thin golden branches stretching upward, each loaded with quivering leaves. The Book of Jin (晋书) notes that “Yan and Dai (代) regions often wore step-shake crowns,” confirming their popularity among aristocrats. When the wearer walked, the leaves shook “one step, one shake”—a mesmerizing display of wealth and, some believed, spiritual protection.
The lacquer painting from the Sha Ling (沙岭) Northern Wei mural tomb in Datong shows the tomb owner and his wife wearing exactly this type of step-shake crown. The description matches Yang Mi’s headpiece perfectly: “cross-shaped gold bars gathered into a central pillar, with thin gold branches extending out and gold leaves hanging down.” Even the bird motifs—parrots and other flying creatures found on the Eastern Wei Ruru princess (茹茹公主) tomb gold crown—prove that such designs weren’t invented by a drama’s art department. They were real, living fashion choices of Northern Wei nobility.
Respecting History
Some online critics argue that this step-shake crown should sit on a Long Guan (笼冠)—a cage-like base cap—for proper ritual comfort. They point to Feng Sufu’s crown, which clearly arches over a Long Guan frame. And they’re not wrong. Yang Mi’s earlier simplified hood version looked flimsier by comparison. But here’s the thing: historical dress wasn’t uniform. Variations existed. The Jiangshan Datong costume team chose a hardened leather hood as the base, which is documented in elite tombs. The gold front plate and the blue stones on the gold band all reappear in archaeological evidence. So this isn’t a case of “randomly changing history.” It’s a case of selecting one authentic option among many.
Too many historical dramas today invent costumes from thin air—shiny fabrics, impossible silhouettes, pure fantasy pieces that have zero connection to any dynasty. That’s why the backlash against “random costume design” is often justified. But Jiangshan Datong does the opposite. Every element of Yang Mi’s hat—from the wind hood flaps to the golden branches to the beaded edges—has a home in Northern Wei artifacts and texts. This is design that grows out of real relics, not out of a designer’s sketchbook with no constraints. That’s not a mistake. That’s respect.
So would you wear Yang Mi’s strange hat today? Probably not. But judged as a historical piece, it’s a small miracle. It tells us that sixth-century nomad nobles loved glitter, movement, and hybrid symbols. It shows us how Chinese and steppe cultures danced together long before the Tang dynasty made fusion famous. And most importantly, it reminds us that “weird” is often just “unfamiliar.” The next time a drama serves up a bizarre-looking costume, don’t laugh first. Ask: which museum did that come from? In this case, the answer might surprise you.