There's some old cliche. The grass is always greener when you're blond, or something like that. I've always wondered if that's true. So I donned a wig to check out if those with fairer hair really do have more fun.

That's why the $30 Farrah Fawcett-looking wig was such a good investment, I reasoned. It's a whole new me, anytime I want.

For the experiment, I spent one day as Brown Maggie, doing the random things I do most every weekend - hitting the gym, gas station, bar. Two days later, I did the same things, only as Blond Maggie.

Getting physical

Going to the gym with a wig was just plain stupid.

After 20 seconds on the treadmill, I thought my head was being strangled by blond synthetic fibers. And the beads of sweat that dripped down my scalp were pretty nasty.

Plus, the people at my gym might not know my name, but they recognize my face. So having curly brown hair one day and enormous straight blond hair the next? Not sexy. Freakish.

The old ball game

I have attended three Major League Baseball games in my life. Just one as a blonde.

As a brunette, I sat back in my seat and let the nice people bring me beer. I didn't get much attention.

Little changed with my blond pageant hair, though I did receive a few catcalls - many unprintable - while walking to the game. None of them was extraordinary or specifically related to my hair color, except for the "Heeeeey baaay --- mghff, brizzzle mgerf " from a speeding vehicle.

Party out of bounds

Standing in line for the bathroom at a Covington party where I was a stranger to most everyone, I overheard two catty young ladies discussing the pelt on my head.

"That color doesn't match her eyebrows," said a (naturally?) blond one.

"That cut is hideous. Makes her face look fat," said the sleek brunette.

After exiting the restroom, I preened in front of a hallway mirror.

"Do I look OK?" I asked the blonde.

"You look great," she said, smiling. "Fabulous hair."

Closing time

By this time, my wig was starting to show its age. As I sauntered into a bar, I had a strawlike mess on my head, and even the drunks were starting to mock me.

"Oh, you wouldn't get it," said a college student who was telling jokes while playing pool. "You're a blonde."

Later, after drinks and a conversation with an attractive man, I found myself wishing Lassie's hide would spontaneously disappear.

"You'd look so pretty with dark hair," Sean said, bending his finger around one fake, brittle lock.

I knew that suddenly whisking the wig off with a big "Ta-da!" would send the date south. Underneath the blond swathing, I had a head full of crushed, clammy curls. And Sean would forever think of me as the crazy who abruptly removed a part of her head. Date over.

Anyway, the guy wasn't exactly my type.

He was too blond.

E-mail mdowns@enquirer.com