How This Danish Flower Clip Took Over Fashion
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I went to Copenhagen for the first time last summer. And when my friends asked me if there was anything I wanted to do there, I actually had only one thing in mind: Acquire a bright red rose hair clip from the brand Caro Editions.
I had been seeing the Rosie clip on my feed at that point for weeks and weeks, the folded fabric blossoming like a fresh rose out of every head on my Instagram. Sometimes, it would appear clipped onto the strap of a leather shoulder bag or the elastic waist of a pair of athletic shorts. But most often it came to me in my dreams: the perfect accessory to transport me to a city populated by cafés that sell cardamom buns and girls who can pull off puffed-sleeved prairie dresses with flip-flops.
If Copenhagen had a uniform, it would be that high-low mix of comfort and quirk. As an outsider, I was convinced just breathing in the Vesterbro air made you cuter. But after a couple of hours in the city, I became convinced the flower clip was the secret ingredient—or at least the accessory that held everything together (sometimes literally). I saw it everywhere. Girls would clip it onto their hair, their waistbands, the straps of their swimsuit tops, and the wicker bits of their bicycle baskets. It felt pleasingly obvious when styled in a braid worn with a tiered white ruffled eyelet dress, and just as pleasantly unexpected holding up the excess fabric of a rolled-up, worn-in varsity T-shirt. But one thing it always managed to do was look good. It added a light whimsy that felt characteristic of the city to every look.
Caroline Brasch, of Caro Editions, is partly to blame. She founded the company in 2022 after a long modeling career, with hopes of creating a clothing brand. (When I spoke with her, she was careful to note there is a big difference between a “fashion brand” and a “clothing brand.”) Brasch wanted to make “beautiful clothing for real people that is playful and easy to wear.” When she released the Rosie hair clip, it became an instant hit. I tried to order it from my home in New York months before my trip to Copenhagen, but it was impossible to find in stock anywhere online. When I finally made the trip over, it was the first (and very best) thing I bought.
I asked Brasch how she decided to make the clip. and she essentially said she was born with the idea. “If I go back to my earliest fashion memory, it was saving up 50 kroner to buy hairpins or clips from this children’s shop near where we lived,” she said. “You could say the Rosie hair clip starts from that memory.”
The clip doesn’t feel childish, exactly, but it does feel like something a child would dream up when asked what a grown-up would wear in their hair for a special occasion. And while adults know how hard it is to become someone who has time to smell the roses, let alone pick them as accessories, the Rosie clip makes you feel like you can be that person.
Brasch noted that when she has hers on, it’s often the only girly aspect of her look. “It’s a nice touch, and they are really practical—they are such an easy way to keep my hair in place,” she said. Most whimsical accessories aren’t actually that easy to use (just look at Loewe’s pigeon purse), and she attributes people’s love of the Rosie clip to its ability to walk that line. As for how she would recommend styling it, she said, “Just please be yourself. Be personal! Don’t try to style it too much.”
When I mentioned how the clip has become a sort of symbol for the Scandi-girl aesthetic, Brasch admitted she’s not the biggest fan of that label. “You can’t clothe a region in a style, and I don’t categorize Caro Editions in that way. But to generalize, there is an ease about Danish style—maybe the attitude as much as the look. Danish women are confident dressers, mixing and matching colors. Plus, there’s always the practical side of wearing sneakers and layers dressed up with something like a Rosie clip that suits our lifestyle.”
In recent weeks, as the weather has (mostly) shifted to warmer temperatures in New York, I’ve seen the flower clip blossom as often as the real flowers on the trees lining the sidewalks. I’ve started to reach for mine every time I leave the house, knowing that how I wear it might shift throughout the day. (Sometimes, it’ll start in my hair and end up on my back, turning a long button-down into a crop top after spending some time adorning the strap of my bag.) Earlier this week at a pottery class, a fashion-editor friend wore one clipped to the strap of her bag. It was an easy way, she told me, to dress up a look that didn’t entirely feel like her, since we were instructed to dress down to avoid dirtying any clothing with clay.
And just this morning I spotted one in my barista’s hair. It matched the one I had holding my bangs out of my face, and we exchanged smirks and squeals, like we were part of a secret society—one that prides itself not on exclusivity, but on the fun, girlish charm of just being cute.
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