Barry Gibb hair. I want it. It is the perfect helmet of keratin and testosterone forged by the gods. I would make people call me Aslan, only the purest virgin maidens could touch, and it would be
glorious.
Even if it was covered up, you would still
know it is there, in its perfection. I would bust in on the scene, wearing my reflective aviator suit and the room would go nuts.
"What up bitches!" 
The minute the hat is removed, not a hair out of place. I would just be me, my entourage and a line a fly honeys waiting to just get near the aura of my hair.
I don't even need to wear clothes that fit me. I could just rock ladies XS and look damn good doing it.
Ugly bro Maurice could hang out with me. Not that I need a comparison to make myself look better, but because he could dress like he wanted and still avoid looking like a Pedo.
The mane. It's real. It's happening.