Mountain Man, Furry McGee, even Jesus Christ ... the hair you wear can earn you any of these titles, and it's gotten me all of them.

Several years ago, I decided to grow my hair out. I'd trim it in degrees, but never anything major. Then, I felt a beard would make me more distinguished.

And for roughly five years, that was kind of my trademark. Friends began associating me with the hair, and every name hung on me seemed to relate to it somehow.

But as time passed, my hirsute ways seemed to grow a bit stale. What's more, I'm also a (working) actor, and recently my director told me I would need to shorten my hair and get rid of the beard for an upcoming role

Clearly a change was in order, and much like the French Revolution (the exciting one, not the salon wars of the early 1320s), drastic change requires chronicling. I decided to proceed in stages.

Day One: The first bit to go is the chin. Donning a leather jacket and shades, I hit the streets and am met with cries of "Lemmy!" from my friends. Walking home later, I am even given valuable bonus feet of leeway on the sidewalks by the other pedestrians. Apparently there's something inherently intimidating about this particular look.

Day Two: The sideburns hit the floor. Before I get into this section, I should note that the supermarkets of Tampa Bay are flooded with the elderly, and while most people can navigate through the silver folk with ease, facial hair tends to set their remaining hairs on end. Glares aplenty as I move about the aisles, and clearly with my cart of linguine, rice, toothpaste and clementines, I am up to nothing but debauchery in those glossy eyes. I even manage to elicit a shake of the head from the cashier.

Day Three: Down to a bushy mustache now. Running low on gas, I swing by a station near home to fill up. I live in the less-desirable end of town, and the cheapest gas happens to be in the darkest corner of it. Walking into the station, I am met with angry faces and a general sense of distrust and discomfort. Very confused, I make my way to work, where shouts of "Serpico!" clear that little question right up. Apparently, mustaches these days are reserved purely for police officers, weathermen and sex offenders. Good knowledge for the future.

Day Four: Today, I'm the ghost of the 1920s, and sporting a pencil-thin mustache. Gentlemen thinking about doing this, I promise you it will not go well. A solid three minutes after seeing it, any interest women may have had in you will fade, as well as any self esteem or pencil-thin enthusiasm you may have once had. If for some reason you must do this, it may not be a bad idea to pick up a surgical mask and claim to have contracted SARS, swine flu or whatever bullsh** scare disease comes next. Or, be creative and make up your own! Fun for all ages, and you can be the first on your block with Aleutian Pygmy Fever.

Day Five: Nothing but glorious locks remain, and the cool breeze on my face reminds me that I'm still young at 24 -- either that, or being carded at three separate bars. Having sported the furry look for a while, I had gotten used to being carded maybe once every few months. For so long, I had looked either old enough for bartenders not to bother with the ritual, or homeless enough for them not to care.

Day Six: Everything is gone. I find myself constantly brushing invisible hair out of my face, and using way too much shampoo. I dig deep for courage and head out into brutal society. I meet a friend for coffee, and he takes five minutes to notice I'm even there, during which time a cute barista strikes up a conversation with me. (Note #1: More women approve of the clean look than the gruff mountain-man style.)

I send a picture to my grandparents, who are thrilled I no longer look like a hippie liberal they tell friends they're rather concerned about. (Note #2: A clean haircut will always fool the elderly into thinking you're at least somewhat conservative.)

Arriving at home, my roommate is shocked by my appearance, and my friends, who before had no opinion on the matter, tell me how great I look. One of them informs me that she now feels like she should come to me for advice. (Note #3: The sharp look apparently works better for some people and imparts at least a semblance of sage wisdom.)

This little experiment has shown me several things. Every look comes complete with its own set of reactions, and hair means different things to everyone. If you want people to see you differently, do something drastic with it. You'd be surprised at the reactions. And sweet candy Christ, never try the box mustache.

Jonathan Carter is freelance writer who enjoys bacon.



Asylum's Dating/Love category is brought to you by Gillette, who wants to know:

How Much Do You Groom?
1-2 hours a day -- they call me metrosexual. Cleanliness is next to everything.3204 (6.6%)
1 hour a day -- manscaping is a necessity, I get a 5 o'clock shadow at noon.8328 (17.2%)
30 min. a day -- my biggest concern is remembering deodorant.31081 (64.3%)
Bath time is on Saturday. I'm lucky if I don't clear a room.5741 (11.9%)