The 60’s and 70’s, God love them, were rife with fashion trends. So many influences from beatniks, mop tops, preppies, pret a porter, elephant bell bottoms, hip huggers, hippie dungarees, fringe vests, velour, embroidered prom shirts, platforms, spike toe boots, earth shoes and Adidas runners. It boggles the mind. Also boggling was how utterly ridiculous it looks in a backward glance to those days.

My childhood friend, Faith, was raised in a fairly conservative family, so clothing trends weren’t followed avidly or with chameleon-like change. Her mother sewed and made all the family’s clothes, save for her father: he had a uniform for work in the Postal Service. 

Despite Faith’s strict upbringing, she had a wild streak in her that I was more than happy to encourage. One summer’s afternoon, bored as planks, we schemed to wander out of the neighborhood to the waterfront, having to cross many streets with traffic. Our goal: procure soft serve cones. Having limited to no funds, we “permanently borrowed” money from my father’s change jar. Enough for three cones, with jimmies.

The afternoon heat made short work of melting the ice cream quickly, much quicker than I could eat it. It melted all over me, creating a Jackson Pollack effect on my white short set and sneakers. Faith had the foresight to wear a dark outfit, thereby avoiding any patterning on her clothes. 

I panicked, realizing I’d be caught in myriad crimes: questionable acquiring of money for this trip; biking too far afield from the neighborhood; and eating sweets too close to dinnertime. But the clothes were going to be the giveaway to this caper.

Faith said I could wear something of hers home and she’d sneak my clothes into one of her mother’s washes (hopefully with bleach). My sneakers were ok, because the chocolate that melted on them looked like mud or dirt, which would only get a routine rebuke from my mother.

We snuck into Faith’s house and I changed into one of her dresses, a summer “shift”. All would be well. I hoped. When I got home, my mother did a double-take, asking in one breath where did I get the outfit and didn’t I hate dresses (I did. Vehemently.)? I responded saying it wasn’t a “dress” dress, it was a summer shift and that I borrowed the shift from Faith.

“Why”? I hadn’t thought up a reply to such a direct, terse and logical question. I mumbled something about wanting to see if the shift felt cooler than shorts. Skeptical, but growing disinterested, she asked “And is it?”, and I said “Yes.” I quickly feared that she might take this as a green light to start buying me dresses and added “But it’s horrible for riding my bike”.

End of subject. I changed onto my own shorts and top and my mother said she’d wash and iron the shift to return to Faith. And my faith in my guardian angel increased by ten-fold that day. Consequences of guilt related to fibbing and theft would be dealt with in Confession— the magic erase sponge for all bad little Catholic girls’ souls.