I had a mullet once. For about an hour and a half. But for the record I had never even heard the word "mullet" at that point in my life, so I can promise you it wasn't intentional.
I was in 10th grade or so, in the dead center of the 80s, a decade defined by so many forms of ridiculousness, including hair styles. I had asked Jan, the woman who had been cutting my hair since probably about sixth grade, if she could just leave it a little longer in the back than usual. I just wanted to try something different. I liked the way my hair hung down below my ears when it got longer, so I thought - why not give myself a head start?
When Jan was finished and spun me around, I had to hold back my shock. This was WAY longer than I had visualized. But she had done exactly what I'd asked, and even back then I was too non-confrontational to suggest I wasn't happy with how it turned out; this is a characteristic that has resulted in me living through far too many crappy haircuts in my lifetime, by the way. My mom gave it a neutrally appraising look, paid the bill, and we left.
It's just new, I told myself. I just have to get used to it. In another week, it'll be fine. Cool, even. Full-on denial here. I looked like I should have been playing saxophone in a Tina Turner video.
I went to my bedroom when we got home. My sisters weren't home and my mom went to get dinner ready before Dad got home from work. I heard him come in, and soon after was called to the dinner table. I went to the kitchen and sat down in my usual spot across the table from him. He looked up from scooping something onto his plate and saw me with my new haircut looking as artificially nonchalant as I could.
"No. Absolutely not."
"What?" I replied, with only the most timid of nods toward everything rock and roll had taught me about rebelling against parents when it came to haircuts. But it was pretty clear this wasn't going anywhere. Before dinner went any further my mother stood up and gently steered me into the bathroom, where she got out her hair clippers and quickly fixed me up to what I would have normally looked like after a haircut. Almost as if she had expected this was going to happen.
I was a little reflexively irked at the time, but deep down I was relieved I wasn't going to have to walk around looking like that. And this was only one of countless times my dad had been there to pull me back from the brink of my own bottomless well of teenage stupidity.
So, thanks for that one, Dad. And Happy Father's Day.
