They Wove Your Dead Nan Into A Necklace

By Warren Hamilton Category: Morbid Curiosities 3rd June 2026

Once they had a bereavement, Victorians did not do a quiet little photograph and call it a day. They got out the pliers, some silk thread and turned your nan's hair into a full fashion statement. Not weird in a gothic film way - proper everyday keepsakes: brooches, bracelets, rings, even room-sized wreaths made from hair.

This 'hairwork' trade was proper organised. There were pattern books, instruction leaflets, shops that specialised in weaving hair into complicated motifs. You could buy a mourning locket with a little hairstyle inside, or commission a plait that mixed three relatives like some grim friendship bracelet. It was tasteful, they said. It had meaning. And a certain economy: hair lasts. It does not rot like other bits, so it kept the memory neat for decades.

Queen Victoria did more for gloomy accessories than anyone else. After Prince Albert died she dressed in black for yonks and the whole country followed like gullible fashion students. Mourning became a whole industry: velvet, crepe, etiquette rules and, of course, hair. People swapped locks like modern folk swap Snapchat filters, but with more chiffon and less sense.

I once found a tiny woven brooch at a carboot that looked like a spider had taken up craft. Asked the bloke what it was, he said, 'Hair.' Like that explained it. I held it up and imagined keeping someone's hair in my pocket next to my receipts. Bit intimate, innit? Some of these pieces were made from the beloved's hair, some from lovers while they were still breathing. Romantic or just awkward? You decide.

Now we keep faces on phones and playlists of funerals. We do the digital memorabilia thing. But there is a weird comfort in someone literally braided into your life. It's pragmatic, a bit desperate, and honest. Also, if someone ever offers you a ring that smells faintly like soap and regret, best to ask whose hair before you kiss 'em.