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Fads come and go and no fad flew into existence with such rapid fire and died out quite so quickly as wig hats.

I was a Catholic School grammar student in the days when females were compelled to wear hats to Mass. Every store on Main Street in my little town was dotted with hat shops and finding the perfect hat was indeed a happy pursuit. It wasn’t so difficult in the spring, with the arrival of Easter. Bonnets were colorful and carefully crafted. Pillboxes, berets, cartwheels, sun hats, mushroom style were decorated with ribbons, silk flowers, and feathers.

But in the winter the hats were not so pretty.

Along came the wig hat.

The premise of the wig hat was simple. Made of cheap nylon, it resembled hair and completely covered up your own crown of glory. Once on your head, you could style it in a variety of dos.

The wig hat came in a variety of colors, charcoal gray, chocolate brown, shoe polish black and flaming red.

I had to have one.

I could picture myself walking into church, up into the choir loft, where I sang soprano (not terribly well but the nun liked me) and everyone would admire my recent purchase.

My mother was a widow, trying desperately to support five children. We didn’t have money for frivolous purchases. But I begged, I pleaded. I promised her that I would wear it forever, straight through the winter. It would keep me dry and warm, so I would avoid tonsillitis and the ensuing doctor bills. I was the only girl in the eighth grade that didn’t have one (which was a blatant lie. I was the only girl in the eighth grade, who would have one, which was precisely why I wanted one.)

Somehow she scraped the money together, called the local department store and arranged them to deliver it to our door, in time for Sunday Mass. There was only one left though.

I didn’t even ask the color. I would take it.

And so it was delivered. My hands shook as I tore open the carefully wrapped package. The wig was wrapped in tissue paper, and the color - platinum white. The material resembled cotton candy.

I feigned excitement as I put it on my head. Looking in the mirror, I didn’t appear glamorous. Instead I looked like an old lady, who was beginning to bald.

I had to wear it.

I tried my best to style the hat so I didn’t look fifty years old. And I consoled myself with the fact that I was going to be the only girl in my class to actually have a wig hat.

But my heart was heavy as I climbed into the choir loft.

I heard several girls snicker as I took my place. My best friend, Joanne, who had heard all about the wig hat for weeks on end, opened her mouth wide. “It was the only color left,” I whispered.

I didn’t receive communion. I was too embarrassed to show my face (well, really my hair) to the rest of the congregation. And the moment I left the church, I took the hat off and stuffed it into my handbag.

I never wore it again.

No one in my class ever bought one.

My mother never asked about it.

I’d love to tell you that the incident was the end of my impulse buying, but alas, that isn’t so. I still crave the latest handbag, the miracle cream, the trendiest jewelry. But at least I pay for them myself.

And now I don’t worry about whether or not I look fifty years older. But I do pray that somehow I have managed to look decades younger.

Marianna is an Edgar nominated author of nine published novels and over a hundred short stories. mariannamystery.com