Lend Me Your Ears

Question: One of our younger female graduate students has been wearing "squirrel ears" (species changed to protect identity) while in the department this summer. She wears the ears at all times, even when meeting with faculty members. Since our department is rather large, I do not know her personally. What should I do?

Answer: It seems to Ms. Mentor that you are not called upon to do anything. As the late, great Ann Landers used to say, "MYOB" (mind your own business). And yet . . .

Of course you want to know (and so does Ms. Mentor, and her readers): Why is "Earie" wearing the squirrel ears? One supposes it could be a matter of religion or disability, but that seems unlikely.

Let's assume it is a bizarre fashion statement, in which case Ms. Mentor will take it upon herself to discuss academic fashion. That is a subject which, whenever mentioned, evokes snorts and derisive comments, such as "Fashion in academe? Oxymoron!"

Nevertheless, there are ways to dress in academe, just as there are ways to comport oneself, and every choice does send a message. Earie may feel that she's simply a free spirit expressing a larky individuality. She may not realize that she is being watched, as are we all. People are always observing one another, making judgments, and groaning or chortling.

Certainly there is a public image of fashion for academics. For men it is the tweed jacket with elbow patches -- a style that Ms. Mentor has not seen for several generations, but the memory lingers. For women it is the frumpy Marian the Librarian look -- thoroughly unlike Julia Roberts's professorial character in Mona Lisa Smile and even less like the Amazonian Shannon Tweed, the women's-studies professor in one of Ms. Mentor's all-time favorite movies, the thoroughly underrated Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death. (Ms. Mentor has never met another living soul who's seen it.)

In recent generations, real-life scholars have moved closer to mainstream fashion norms. For job interviews, almost everyone wears black, beige, brown, or blue. Women usually wear pantsuits, or dresses with jackets; men usually wear jackets and ties (and pants). But away from the job market, fashion eccentricities tumble out: piercings, tattoos, depraved haircuts, voluminous or tiny clothes, and squirrel ears.

Yet eyebrow, lip, or tongue piercings always evoke some "Ew's," and not just from Ms. Mentor's fuddy-duddy generation. Tattoos may be gorgeous art, but large, snakelike ones elicit stares from small children. and finicky grownups. Many medical schools forbid students' wearing nose rings, lest they scare patients just coming out of anesthesia.

"But I think it's beautiful art, and so do all my friends, and anyway, while I'm a student, I should be able to do, or wear, or look any way I like, shouldn't I?" Ms. Mentor always pauses at the use of the word "should." Her mission is to explain what is, not what should be.

Body art and nonmainstream fashions will make you seem less professional, less serious. You may, in fact, be much smarter and more creative than the nonpunks and non-Goths around you. But you'll also be a misunderstood and underrated genius. And that has consequences.

Earie may look cute in squirrel ears. Ms. Mentor hopes so, and that she doesn't look verminous or ratlike. Ms. Mentor wonders if the ears are squirrel-red, or even a bright purple or vivid green. For Halloween or Mardi Gras, Earie's look is uniquely chic.

But in the classroom, and at department meetings, and in the halls of Everyday U., Earie will look quite weird. She may have trouble controlling rambunctious undergraduates or gaining their respect.

Meanwhile, her professors, those who will be writing reference letters or recommending her for assistantships, will see her as someone who's unwilling to fit a professional mold. They'll view her as less than serious, or downright strange. Odd ducks are often treasured as "crazy, but I love her" types, and they may be gossiped about with affection -- but they're much less apt to get the scarce goodies.

From a conventional point of view -- and academics are conventional people -- a student with a standout appearance will not seem to represent her university well. Earie's not apt to be trotted out to meet dignified visiting scholars, donors, or pooh-bahs in her field. She'll miss those invaluable moments for networking, for meeting and sniffing about with the big cheeses.

Also missing out: students who display too much notable cleavage, or who wear short, overly tight, or very casual-at-the-beach clothes. If your undergraduates are not looking at your face, or if randy graduate students or visiting poets are trying to brush against you, you are communicating a message that is not, well, intellectual.

Ms. Mentor knows that she will get letters blasting her for being old-fashioned and hopelessly petty and bourgeois. She'll be told about famous Goths who have won endowed chairs, and punks who have world-class portfolios. (She'll also be reminded that art school is different, and she agrees.)

But we are not all artsy geniuses whose charisma is so extraordinary that the world will little note nor long remember that we look funny. Most of us are A-minuses. We do best with a little help from our friends. But Ms. Mentor's correspondent is not even one of Earie's friends.

Ms. Mentor is left with an exquisite etiquette problem, should her correpondent wish to do some free-lance mentoring. How does one say to a total stranger, "What's with the squirrel ears?" and "Wanna commit professional suicide?" How does a stranger resist the temptation to whisper, in a rodentlike way, "Psst! Do they call you Rocky or Ratatouille?"

Maybe the best way to be tactful is to be a little sly. One could just leave this column, anonymously, in someone's mailbox. Squirreled away, of course.

Question: You wouldn't by any chance have a system in which every seventh person who e-mails you gets a tenure-track job, would you?

Answer: Alas.

Sage Readers: The start of school brings howls and pleadings, cheers and fears from Ms. Mentor's flock. For inquiring newly hired faculty members, she recommends Kathryn Hume's dissection of academic politics in Surviving Your Academic Job Hunt, and A. Leigh DeNeef and Craufurd D. Goodwin's description of academic structures in The Academic's Handbook.

Ms. Mentor's mailbox brims with communiqués from those who resolve to publish more, get hired, or get revenge. Some seek advice for dealing with recalcitrant partners, or cell-phone-wielding students, or deadwood colleagues, or dissertation advisers who've somehow turned sour. ("Must I grovel at his feet and beg for approval?" asks one distraught student.)

Ms. Mentor welcomes communiqués, rants, and queries on these and other subjects. All communications are confidential, and identifying details are always disguised. She rarely answers letters personally, but readers may find their situations handled in future columns or in her archive, in The Chronicle's online forums, and in her tome, Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia. She also invites material for her next book, Ms. Mentor's Perfect Wisdom for the Academic Soul.

Ms. Mentor, who never leaves her ivory tower, channels her mail via Emily Toth in the English department of Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. Her Chronicle address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com

Her views do not necessarily represent those of The Chronicle.