I can only think of one reason that God or, more likely, some hairstylist in rural Mississippi, created the mullet. It had to be for the sheer hilarity of it. If you’re ever having a really horrible day, Google “mullet” and look at the images that fill your computer screen. If you don’t experience immediate projectile laughter, check your pulse. The fun can be compounded if you have a photo editing program. Put a mullet on your friends, family, enemies, celebrities - the list is endless – and you will reach a state of hilarious nirvana. I fully realize that this will expose my sometimes juvenile sense of humor, but there are times when a mindless and hearty laugh is preferable to cerebral wit.
For all the obvious drawbacks that the mullet has as a hairstyle, it remains strangely popular among some. Today, walking through the local Target, I saw a sight so tragic, that it seems almost wrong to write about it. A well-dressed, upper middle-aged woman was walking with her son. The mother was very attentive and kind, and seemed to care deeply for the boy. While this might have been a touching sight – the devotion of a mother to her son – the fact that the boy had a very pronounced mullet kind of ruined it. Why, I asked myself, would a woman do that to her son? If that’s not cruelty, I’m not sure what is.
I once went to church with a woman who was also blessed with a mullet of impressive proportions. Her shiny red hair was carefully coiffed – curled and sprayed in high-piled splendor on the top of her head. It was the long, straight, rather stringy, tendrils of hair falling down her ample back that just didn’t seem to work. I’ve often wondered at those hairdos that seem so carefully styled on top and front, only to have forgotten the sides or back. Flash back to the late seventies and early eighties. Imagine hair, carefully parted in the middle and flamboyantly feathered on each side. This look was most likely achieved through the use of the very large pink comb with its handle sticking out of the back pocket of the wearer’s too tight jeans.
Hair is important and, often, problematic. My own is always disappointing. When it’s too short I am told, often by my loving daughter and devoted mother, that it makes me look like a “pinhead”. When it gets too long I look like a big-haired televangelist who might have graced morning TV in the early ‘90s, tearfully admitting to his poor judgment in having an “inappropriate relationship” the church secretary .
Our family’s most recent hair crisis occurred when I took two of my sons to the local discount hair salon. You must understand that these boys are, at least in appearance, adorable. After Sasha (we’ll call her Sasha - it was the name on her tag) got through with them, they looked like little, well, nerds. Their bangs were so short that it looked like their foreheads had doubled in size over the past thirty minutes. The sides and back were no better. Although longer than the top (a mini mullet in the making), little clumps of hair peaked over their ears.
Few things can make one look better than a really good haircut. And few things can do more to damage your appearance, and maybe your reputation, than a really bad haircut. All you have to do to prove this point is think of the last person you saw wearing a mullet. I rest my case.
For all the obvious drawbacks that the mullet has as a hairstyle, it remains strangely popular among some. Today, walking through the local Target, I saw a sight so tragic, that it seems almost wrong to write about it. A well-dressed, upper middle-aged woman was walking with her son. The mother was very attentive and kind, and seemed to care deeply for the boy. While this might have been a touching sight – the devotion of a mother to her son – the fact that the boy had a very pronounced mullet kind of ruined it. Why, I asked myself, would a woman do that to her son? If that’s not cruelty, I’m not sure what is.
I once went to church with a woman who was also blessed with a mullet of impressive proportions. Her shiny red hair was carefully coiffed – curled and sprayed in high-piled splendor on the top of her head. It was the long, straight, rather stringy, tendrils of hair falling down her ample back that just didn’t seem to work. I’ve often wondered at those hairdos that seem so carefully styled on top and front, only to have forgotten the sides or back. Flash back to the late seventies and early eighties. Imagine hair, carefully parted in the middle and flamboyantly feathered on each side. This look was most likely achieved through the use of the very large pink comb with its handle sticking out of the back pocket of the wearer’s too tight jeans.
Hair is important and, often, problematic. My own is always disappointing. When it’s too short I am told, often by my loving daughter and devoted mother, that it makes me look like a “pinhead”. When it gets too long I look like a big-haired televangelist who might have graced morning TV in the early ‘90s, tearfully admitting to his poor judgment in having an “inappropriate relationship” the church secretary .
Our family’s most recent hair crisis occurred when I took two of my sons to the local discount hair salon. You must understand that these boys are, at least in appearance, adorable. After Sasha (we’ll call her Sasha - it was the name on her tag) got through with them, they looked like little, well, nerds. Their bangs were so short that it looked like their foreheads had doubled in size over the past thirty minutes. The sides and back were no better. Although longer than the top (a mini mullet in the making), little clumps of hair peaked over their ears.
Few things can make one look better than a really good haircut. And few things can do more to damage your appearance, and maybe your reputation, than a really bad haircut. All you have to do to prove this point is think of the last person you saw wearing a mullet. I rest my case.
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