Michael Smerconish | MR. CHROME DOME GETS FUZZY

IT SPROUTED on Christmas Day, though not because

I had planned it that way, or intended it at all.

That's just the way it began.

Christmas is obviously an atypical day. My wife and I sleep only until the first of the kids awakens, and from the moment one of them comes into our bedroom, nothing that follows mirrors the usual daily routine, or even that of a weekend.

Instead of heading for the shower, we all go downstairs for coffee and gift-opening.

That process is a lot like Thanksgiving. It takes my wife four hours to cook a meal we eat in about four minutes, including the moment it takes to say grace. The time it takes to open packages? Feels like the same four minutes.

When the gift-giving had ended this year, I decided to stay in a sweatshirt - and unshaven.

The day after Christmas, I got into the shower but didn't draw the razor. Not for any particular reason, and again, without a plan. I just didn't feel the need.

By Day Three, I needed to leave the house, and at that point my joyride became a plotted course: I'd decided to grow a beard. At least until I had to return to work.

Well, it's been two weeks. I'm back at work, and the beard is staying. At least until my wife acknowledges I have one. So far, she has said nothing.

I've been bald since college, so hair decisions have been few. Five years ago, I shaved my head, and it was one of the better things I've ever done. I only wish I'd done it sooner.

That decision was also born of unusual circumstances. I had taken my wife to the Old Guard House Inn in Gladwyne for dinner in honor of her birthday.

Albert Breuers, the chef/owner, gave me some homemade schnapps as an after-dinner drink. When we left his place, my wife - who was also the designated driver - noticed that her then-hairdresser, Maurice, was still open for business across the street.

She said she needed to make an appointment.

So we walked in together, and Maurice took a look at me and suggested I come for an appointment, too. Which is when the schnapps kicked in. I said OK.

The following Saturday, I got my hair "done." In a salon full of Main Line women, I sat while Maurice gave me a military-style buzz cut. Then the women voted, unanimously, that he keep going.

When it was over, my head was totally shaved, and I became the only man to ever pay $125 for the honor. (My wife explained that Maurice had a reputation that commanded such prices.)

I wasn't sure how I felt about the new me when I left. Two weeks later, I found myself in Cuba, having dinner with Sen. Arlen Specter and Fidel Castro.

I think my new look was why Fidel took me for a military/ CIA/Bay of Pigs organizer. Nonetheless, all I needed was a little sun on my noggin. Once I had that, there was no looking back.

Since then, guys contemplating the full monty of haircuts often seek my advice, which is fourfold: 1) Buy an anti-steam mirror. 2) Use the mirror to shave in the shower.

3) Use a multiblade handheld razor. And 4) Find the right lather. (I recommend Helan Natural's Vetiver & Rum Sapone da Barba.) I get it online from an old-school apothecary in Chicago.

So as 2008 begins, I'm now sporting a Seamus McCaffery up top and a Jerry Garcia down below. Actually, it has yet to grow to that level, and I have no idea if it will. So far, it's salt and pepper in color, so I guess that's politically correct.

ISTILL HAVE some decisions to make, such as length.

I intend to trim it somewhere between a Pat Croce goatee and ZZ Top/Rip Van Winkle look, and I'm unsure of how high it should grow up toward my ear.

I've yet to decide if it will still be around when the Phils hit Clearwater. That will probably be determined by if and when my wife acknowledges it.

You'll know it's staying when you see my column photo change. Happy New Year. *

Listen to Michael Smerconish weekdays 5:30-9 a.m. on the Big Talker, 1210/AM. Read him Sundays in the Inquirer. Contact him via the Web at www.mastalk.com.