I saw an LA-mullet at lunch today, which is fairly rare considering the fashion-forward attitude that is pervasive in the LA Basin. It was blond, flowing, and accentuated by a mustache. I searched for traces of irony in the mulletee; like a “Yeah, I’m so in on the joke that it’s cool” type thing, but I detected none.
This baby was for real.
One of my good college friends had a mullet (and this is in the mid-90’s) which we relentlessly (and justifiably) tease him about. Personally, I was saved from the mullet, but not by my own choice. My hair is naturally-curly, though not in a Gene Wilder or Guy-From-Greatest-American-Hero sort of way… just enough so that it simply grows out, retaining it’s overall look and shape and increasing in volume. Though this, too, is a minor curse, it is much less than mulletood, I believe.
Therefore, back in the junior high days, when mom still cut the hair, I would refuse to let her touch the back. She would always try to linguistically trick me, agreeing that I indeed needed a hair cut, emphasizing certain words so that she would later be admonished if I accussed her of not telling me she really meant to just take a clipper to the back of my neck. I was always very careful, though, going so far as to hold my hand on the back of my head while she waited for the right opportunity.
Had I been more straight-haired, I undoubtedly would have had a glorious, waist-reaching mullet to be proud of, and shake my head at now. Instead, I just had big, big hair.