an unofficial history of the flower crown

Many moons ago, in a dark era before the arrival of Uber, a winged goddess named Kelsey got lost on her way home from an off-campus costume party because she had, like, wayyy too much Four Loko. As any slurring, sexy fairy is wont to do, she stumbled into a bodega for a bacon, egg, and cheese, snatching a bag of sunflower seeds on her way out in order to offset the massive carb-and-calorie guilt that was imminent. Just a few stiletto steps into a dark alley, her three-inch heel collapsed under the weight of her breakfast sandwich, and everything went black. 

When she came to, she found herself alone in a tent in the middle of the desert. She surveyed the scene: a few sleeping bags, four fedoras, and a suspicious number of unattended Apple device chargers. Peeking outside, she squinted at a large sign in the distance. “Co...Coach...Coachella,” she whispered. Kelsey lifted a gel-manicured hand up to her ear and tried to make out the chant of a crowd from afar. “This sex is on fiiiiiire!” “My jam!” she whispered to no one in particular. “I have to get over there!”

Not so fast, Kelsey. You see, just beyond the tent lay a mythical place known as the Land of the Basic Bitch. Many aspiring Coachella attendees, just like her, only intended to pass through for some Chipotle and cold-pressed juice before continuing on their way to Kings of Leon ... but they never left.

It was easy to see why. Starbucks lined the streets, and Pumpkin Spice Lattes were always in season. Rosy-cheeked millennials with Brazilian blowouts donned yoga pants, Juicy tracksuits, and UGGs of all sizes and shades. Traffic accidents were rare, but a Bitch-on-Bitch pedestrian collision — while one or both of them was scrambling to add a moment to their Snapchat stories while eating fro-yo — was a daily occurrence. Instead of a monument honoring a famous historical figure, a marble bust of Lauren Conrad sat proudly in the square. You were out of luck if you wanted to see the latest blockbuster; a double feature of The Notebook and Mean Girls sold out the town’s only movie theater daily. And yes ... on Wednesdays, everyone wore pink.

But back to our hungover hero. In a daze, she made her way out of the tent and into her promised land, passing through the rose garden where Chris Harrison hand-picked the blooms (and sometimes the contestants) for each Bachelor episode. With the sunflower seeds still in hand for sustenance, she remembered her greasy sins of the previous night and sloppily shoveled the remainder of the bag into her mouth. What she didn’t realize, though, was that these were no ordinary sunflower seeds. The non-GMO, gluten-free, organic and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious morsels that were left in her wake possessed special powers that would soon unite the Basic Bitch community in a totes unforgettable way.

Just about a year later, on their way back from an early-morning class, two unsuspecting SoulCyclers happened upon a miraculous sight in the garden. A pair of perfectly round sunflower halos, each woven together as if by magic, sat untouched amongst the roses. 

“It’s like they were made for us!” one exclaimed, unfastening her ponytail and placing the strange new accessory on her head.

“Perf for Coachella next weekend!” the other squealed, following suit.

A few well-timed, abundantly-hashtagged Instagram selfies later, and a phenomenon was born. Back in her dorm room, blissfully unaware of her trendsetter status, Kelsey rolled her eyes at the flood of floral headpieces that clogged her feed. 

“Baaaasic.”