Transgressive behaviour isn’t normally sound-tracked by nursery rhymes. But in the toddlers’ service at my United Synagogue shul recently, I noticed something startling; around half the married women were hatless. And comfortably, unapologetically, I was among them.

It’s been a gradual rebellion, hardly a rebellion at all. The first time was accidental; I only realised when I got there. Nobody blinked an eye, other than the elderly gentleman who asked me— the wrong side of 30 — how I was enjoying university.

But, of late, shul has largely been about the service for the under-threes, where some, although not all, eschew a hat. Admittedly, it’s more informal — we sing about sleeping bunnies, rather than the sidrah — but most end up in the main service for the close, or at least join for kiddush. Yet I’ve never felt self-conscious having my head uncovered. And, truthfully, since the requirement for modesty applies in all circumstances, not just shul, what’s the difference?

There’s much discussion around the laws of tzniut, or modesty, but it’s clear some association has historically been made (not just in Judaism) between exposed hair and sexual wantonness; something that, in other words, could drive men wild and must be concealed. In the most religious communities, it’s one of a panoply of sartorial restrictions; hemlines, sleeve-lengths, even the colour of tights, along with constraints on singing in front of men, or — most extreme — driving while female.

But in modern Orthodoxy, hair covering is the main thing. And, growing up, I’d always accepted that married women adhered to it, usually with some vast contraption, adorned with flowers or baubles. The kind of hat you’d otherwise only spot in a Richard Curtis film, or at Ascot.

Nor did it feel particularly problematic. While from a young age it jarred that men and women couldn’t sit together, or that women were often relegated to kiddush duties, the hat never really bothered me.

“I’ve always worn one out of tradition,” said one friend, who sees it as another shopping opportunity. Another, who grew up Orthodox but now attends Reform services, confesses to missing her hat, as a sixth-former might miss the routine of school uniform.

“My husband wears a kippah, so I can handle a hat,” said one woman, although she acknowledged that if she were still single in her 30s she might feel differently.

Indeed, a hat in Judaism is a public relationship status; we’ve all seen newlyweds flaunting theirs on their first post-marital Rosh Hashanahs like they are posing for a selfie against a stunning sunset. And when marriages break down, it can be challenging; a friend with divorced parents recalls her mother being the subject of nasty gossip when she began attending shul hatless. Once her son was barmitzvah, she moved to a Liberal community, where it wasn’t an issue.

In Judaism and outside, modesty rules can be tools to subjugate or sideline; witness the airbrushing of women from photographs in religious newspapers. If a woman lacks autonomy over how the world sees her, she may be hindered from plotting her own path. And, yes, it’s a choice; but choosing to dress differently can mean choosing to reject everything else, too.

Living near a Charedi area for a brief period in Israel, I’d walk past every day in burning sun, feeling for the girls forced into thick tights and heavy dresses. But, then, shtreimels don’t look especially comfortable either.

Of course, it’s ludicrous to compare occasional hat-wearing with the restrictions on our Strictly Orthodox sisters. At a US synagogue, the requirements are barely more restrictive than those of my workplace. The headgear can be pretty low-maintenance. Plenty wear fascinators, headbands or little doilies, not more cumbersome snoods, headscarfs or sheitels.

But perhaps that’s why I’ve largely stopped wearing a hat. It’s so artificial, so perfunctory; the ultimate advertisement that I don’t do this all the time. I’m not dressing as ultra-observant women do, and I’m not pretending to live up to the modesty standards they must adhere to.

It would be great to move to a point when modesty isn’t focused on dress code at all. But in the meantime, I feel a bit of a fraud wearing a hat on Shabbat. It’s like claiming to be on a diet all week, then wolfing down a whole cake when nobody’s looking.

In other words, it’s for show. Which isn’t very modest at all, when you think about it.