In a recent still from the upcoming historical drama The Mo (家业), actress Yang Zi (杨紫) appears wearing a flowing white headscarf that has sparked intense online discussion. Some viewers compare it to the serene veil of Guan Yin (观音), while others see a striking resemblance to a modern wedding veil. But this is no costume designer’s fantasy.
It is a careful revival of two distinct headwear traditions from China’s Song and Ming dynasties: the Gai Tou (盖头), a square cloth used by Song women, and the later Fu Jin (幅巾), a hood-like scarf that became fashionable among late Ming women. Neither covers the forehead completely, which creates that unique, ethereal look. To understand why this simple piece of gauze has captured so much attention, we need to travel back nearly a thousand years and untangle two very different—and often confused—garments.
The Song Precedent
The Gai Tou was an everyday essential for women in the Song dynasty (960–1279). Ancient records call it a “square piece of purple silk gauze.” According to Shen Congwen (沈从文) in his seminal work Studies of Ancient Chinese Costumes and Adornments (中国古代服饰研究), Song women commonly wore a square kerchief made of thin silk. It could be draped directly over the head and upper body, offering both modesty and practicality for daily outings. No complex tying or pinning was required—just lay it on and go.
We see this same square-cloth style in another Ming-era drama, Under the Moonlight (锦囊妙录), where working women wear a simple square head covering. Some versions are tied at the back or sides to keep it secure during farmwork or house chores. The Gai Tou was democratic: it served a peasant woman in the field as easily as a merchant’s wife visiting the market. It was never meant to be glamorous, but its honest utility gave it a quiet dignity.
Here lies the first point of confusion. Many online articles today mix up the Gai Tou with the Fu Jin. But they are not the same thing. The Gai Tou is simply a square piece of fabric. The Fu Jin, as we will see, is shaped and structured. The Song cloth drapes; the Ming scarf wraps. Recognizing this difference is key to appreciating Yang Zi’s costume.
The Ming Identity
The Fu Jin has a much longer recorded history, beginning in the Han dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE). The Book of the Later Han notes that the scholar Zheng Xuan (郑玄) declined formal court robes and instead met officials wearing a Fu Jin. From that moment, it became a symbol of the cultured, the simple, and the elegant. By the Song and Ming periods, it was the preferred headwear for scholars and gentlemen, worn during Confucian rituals, temple ceremonies, and ancestral worship. A proper Fu Jin, made of three-foot-square silk, was wrapped from the forehead to the back of the head, tied with ribbons that fell down the chest or back, reaching the shoulders or even lower.
What changed in the late Ming? Women began to borrow it. As gender boundaries relaxed during that prosperous and flamboyant era, “women wearing men’s accessories” became a fashionable statement. The poet and courtesan Liu Rushi (柳如是) was particularly fond of the Fu Jin. For her, it represented integrity and personal style—a rejection of overly feminine ornamentation. Portraits from Ming water-and-land paintings and Shi Nü Tu (仕女图) show elegant women in Fu Jin, their faces framed by the scarf’s gentle curve, their ribbons trailing like silent verses of poetry.
But this fashion wave was short. The female Fu Jin flourished only in the late Ming, then faded. That is why most Buddhist statues of Guan Yin from the Song and Ming show her wearing a Gai Tou, not a Fu Jin—because the Gai Tou was the enduring, everyday norm. Yang Zi’s stylist has merged both inspirations: the frontal drape of a Gai Tou and the back-tying structure of a Fu Jin. The result is historically rooted, yet strangely fresh.
Reclaiming a Lost Heritage
If you think the Fu Jin looks familiar from Korean historical dramas, you are not wrong—but also not entirely right. The Korean hooded shawl for children and students does borrow from late Ming Chinese styles. However, the Korean version rarely appears on adult scholars or officials, whereas the Chinese Fu Jin was deeply embedded in Confucian ritual and gender-bending fashion. For decades, Chinese TV dramas have largely ignored the Fu Jin, letting Korean productions dominate the visual memory of audiences worldwide. As a result, many people today mistakenly believe this headdress is “traditionally Korean.”
The good news is that shows like The Mo are breaking the assembly-line fantasy costumes that once dominated historical C-dramas. Instead of inventing a generic “ancient” look, the production team studied actual relics, paintings, and archaeological reports. They revived the Gai Tou and Fu Jin not as dry museum pieces, but as living textiles that move, flutter, and frame a face. This attention to detail does more than please costume enthusiasts. It quietly educates millions of viewers, correcting cultural misunderstandings one episode at a time.
Authentic costume design is not a luxury. It is a form of cultural memory. When a young viewer sees Yang Zi in that white gauze and recognizes it as a Ming Fu Jin—not a wedding veil, not a Korean imitation—a small thread of tradition is mended. The Song Gai Tou and the Ming Fu Jin spent centuries in obscurity, locked in paintings and burial figurines. Now, thanks to careful research and bold on-screen choices, they are walking and talking again. Do you like this Fu Jin look? The question itself shows that we are finally paying attention to the right things.