A few months ago, for the first time in my life, I received a steady pay cheque. As one whose fashion tastes have always run largely towards the "original", I have fallen back on the excuse of not having the finances to support my extravagant taste. So this momentous event was an occasion to indulge. It was time to own a real handbag. A grown-up bag. A bag that would inspire me to leave the house. A bag that would make me proud to reach for my wallet, tissues and keys.

I was on a mission. First, ignore the fact that the pay cheque didn't take in tax -deal with that later. Second, and far more exhilarating, I made the decision to celebrate this passage into adulthood with a trip to Marc Jacobs.

Lately, I had found myself obsessing about the Marc Jacobs phenomenon. Here in New York, his bags have sprouted on every corner, like a fungus. But despite their ubiquity, they remain aesthetically appealing. There is a store in the West Village, minutes away from where I live. So I set out, armed with my credit card and some last-minute words of advice from my best friend, Jenny: "Just remember, never buy a bag bigger than your ass." With a bounce in my step and a glance at my ass, I left at three o'clock on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I was filled with hope.

Half an hour later, I was filled with dread. Standing in front of the cash register, the Sofia Coppola-esque saleswoman kept reciting the words, "Seven hundred and fifty dollars" over and over -like the mantra from a scary Zen consumer chant.

I was gripped with fear, unable to respond. In my sweat- drenched palm, I held the Visa card, but I could not relinquish it. There before me, wrapped in tissue, was my very own black leather barometer of success -we were about to be unified -but I was shaking and pale, and I stood there, at the altar of success, with cold feet.

Time passed. It became an ordeal. As if I had an illness, friends would call, oozing sympathy, checking in. "How's it going? Did you buy it yet?" Every weekend, for months, I would visit the store. Like the hajj, it became a pilgrimage.

Loitering outside, I'd be on the cusp of a purchase. The saleswomen would roll their eyes when they saw me enter, and I was determined to prove to them I could commit.

But suddenly, a vision of an unpaid phone bill or an airline ticket to London would appear, and I'd dart out of the store like an adulterer at a whorehouse.

What was wrong with me? What was this about? A woman's handbag is a reflection of who she is. We relate to them in the way men relate to cars. There is the desire to show off; there is the desire for function.

They hold everything, they transport us, and they display status. A beautiful bag, like a beautiful car, is to be admired. We become attached. It signifies taste (or lack of it), and for many of us who can't fit into a size-eight designer label, it is a way to feel fashionable without feeling fat.

There are women who gravitate towards bags specifically because of the labels. But the origins of appreciation are mysterious. Do we love the bag for the bag itself, or because we've been conditioned to believe that, like the label, it is beautiful and meaningful, and therefore we covet it? I thought about why I wanted the Marc Jacobs bag. Usually, I try to stay away from labels that everyone under the sun knows are hot, but I do like high-end designer stuff if it's beautiful and not so obvious, or vintage, or rare, or on sale at an extremely big discount.

I asked Jenny, my fashion guru, what she thought of the Marc Jacobs bag. "I really don't like to pay what everyone else is paying for an item that everyone else is carrying, and to look like everyone else who thinks she has taste because she's got a Marc Jacobs bag."

Never has high-end taste been more dubious than with the omnipresent Vuitton Murakami trend. The regular Vuitton bag is label-intensive enough, but the white Murakami with the multicoloured logo? I look at women with these bags and feel genuine sorrow. They might as well wear a T-shirt that reads: Pawn With Money. But maybe I'm missing something. So I tested the idea. I went up to a J.Lo lookalike, who was clutching one, and inquired what it was that had compelled her to buy it.

"It's original. I like it," she squeaked.

Huh? My question was answered. Who buys Murakami? Women on drugs.

Labels, particularly Marc Jacobs, can reveal sides of people that are better left unseen. My friend Laura is not easily rattled. But last year we were at a party, and her ex-boyfriend turned up with his new girlfriend. Laura turned pale and became very agitated. Thinking it was the sight of her ex with his new love, I began to console her. "I don't care that he's here with her," she snapped. "But he'd better not have bought her that Marc Jacobs bag she's carrying."

For some women, handbags are like children. My friend Maggie remembers the exact date she bought her Marc Jacobs. "It was September 25, 2001. It was post-9/11, and Giuliani was telling everyone to shop. I allowed myself to spend the $750 because I was doing my patriotic duty. It was good for the economy."

When asked what it was that drew her to the bag, her voice softens and she coos: "Oh, it was black leather, with the hardware on the pockets, but then you opened it up, and there was this pink lining. It was like me: tough on the outside, tender on the inside." Then, abruptly, she bristles. "I was way ahead of the curve." She recalls that when she opened her bag, the compliments tripled. "People admired it, but when they glimpsed the lining, they would literally gasp. I got addicted to adulation." She also believes that it's part of the reason she has her current job. "The head of my company has a Marc Jacobs, and we bonded over it."

Maggie's story is enlightening. She bought her first Fendi in 1998 in Los Angeles.

She was in Beverly Hills and had time to kill before going back to the office. She spotted it in the window and there was an immediate intense visual connection.

"It wasn't the label, it was the crinkled patent leather." Her 30th birthday was coming up. "I hated my job, but it allowed me to buy the bag." A threshold had been crossed.

A beautiful bag is a benchmark of adulthood. Job equals Fendi. And if you really think about it, what other reason is there to work? Buying the Fendi was also a breakthrough in terms of self-esteem. "Someone said to me, 'How did you know to move on to Fendi when everyone else was still buying Prada?' They were so impressed."

She knew then that she had a gift. "I had a white vinyl bag that predates the Fendi," she says. "It was a cheap vintage bag, but I'm telling you, everyone commented on how great it was. I mean, rich people, poor people -even the guy at Starbucks." A good bag can unite the world.

But what about price? Where do you draw the line? "I wouldn't break four digits, before tax," Maggie says. "I got the Fendi for my 30th, the Marc Jacobs for 9/11, and then a Hogan for my 35th." She thinks of it as an investment, and points out that an Hermes Kelly bag is probably a better investment than most stocks. Now, I'm curious -does she ever use the Marc Jacobs? "No," she says, plaintively.

"I've moved on."

Another friend, Jenny, is the voice of dissent.

"I just don't get it," she says. "Those bags are hideous. They look like luggage.

And the colours are so gaudy. Fuchsia? Mustard yellow? Turquoise?" She has a point. I've seen women carrying the turquoise duffel -when it comes to turquoise, a little goes a long way.

If you're not into labels, choosing a bag is all about timing and vision. It's a moment in time that feels right, combined with an x factor that's hard to describe. A bit like meeting the perfect man. Only, chances are, I'll settle for an imperfect man before I'll settle for an imperfect bag.

Eventually, I did break down and buy a Marc Jacobs, but two days later, racked with guilt, I returned it. The thrill of returning an expensive item was alarming. All of a sudden, I had $750 extra -free money! So the quest continues. If a bag says "This is me", then perhaps the problem lies in an identity crisis. Who am I? Right now, I'm a woman without a bag.