Angela Devoti and a friend are trying to spread the idea of the Noh Festival, which she describes as not so much an event as a state of mind. "It's taking place on T-shirts … and in the minds, hearts and mouths of anyone who is opposed to the trademarking of what should be public domain," the bartender says.
For Crystal Callahan, who grew up in Hampden, the festival once seemed like a family reunion.
"My Grandma Helen was pretty much a hon before I knew what a hon was," she says. "Bouffant. Slippers. On the front porch talking to the neighbors. After her passing, we started going to Honfest."
Callahan, who's 25 and a tattoo artist, would walk the festival with her father and two brothers, feeling like they shared something in common with fellow attendees. But not this year.
"After the whole commercialization of it, it feels like it cheapens the family memory," she says. "My grandma wasn't a mascot to be profited off of.
"[Denise Whiting] is trying to treat hon like it's her own invention. It's not. It's more of a community thing. It's our word. You just can't come in and steal our word."
As an award-winning hon, Osborne is sad to be missing what might be the biggest event on the calendar for hon-kind. The skirt made from a painted window screen will have to stay in the closet. None of the seven wigs will get any action.
But a hon's got principles to consider.
"I love that festival. Little girls looked up to me and asked me if I was a princess," she says. "But I'm not going because 'hon' should be free."
Baltimore Sun reporter Chris Kaltenbach contributed to this article.