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YOU TOO CAN BE A MULLETHEAD
Just grow your hair for eight months, go to Supercuts, and ask for the Billy Ray Cyrus
After talking so much talk. we felt compelled to walk some walk, so Bob let his hair grow out till he couldn't take it no more and went to Supercuts, where he got a shampoo and custom clipjob for 13 bucks. In the ensuing two weeks he learned to live with (and to a certain extent even loved the Mullet.
Immediately afterwards I felt like a new man and posed outside Supercuts next to a Corvette in my polyester DeVito/Schwarznegger/Big Dog summershirt. Everything was fine until that night, when my friend Tracy said, "Oh my God, I'm making out with a Mullet Head." When I saw myself in the mirror the next morning, I screamed, having forgotten what I'd done. While such shock of recognition usually occurs whenever I get a rug re-think, this was ridiculous, and for a few days afterwards I grimaced each time I saw my shadow on the sidewalk.
I felt compelled to explain myself to both friends and strangers, but my friends took pleasure in claiming that the Mullet looked appropriate on me, while strangers were often offended. "Whaddya mean? I think it's sexy" said this one female friend of Ubiquitous Virge's who only asked, "What's so funny?" and "What's a Mullet?" when I tried to explain. Apologizing in advance for a Mullet, therefore, is not advised, as most normal people are resigned to thinking it's fashionable and/or attractive. One morning I decided to tie my wet hair into a ponytail. But after only a few minutes of feeling like Steven Seagal, I envisioned my mother chasing me with a rolling pin, so I undid the rubber band and watched in disgust as my hair flared back out into its typically leonine mess.
Since the band was gone at the time, I had to live with the Mullet for two weeks before I could show Mike. Of course, when Mike finally saw my Mullet, he said it was too long in front and too short in back, so when we all went to Vegas shortly thereafter for the first Lollapalooza show, I found the (Dutch) courage to get the top chopped and sides extra shorn by a black female barber (who, of course, said it looked sexy). And I would have felt sexy had not teenage whiz kid Ben Lee of Noise Addict been there, convulsing in peals of squeals. It was only after outfitting myself in Big Dog shirt, sansabelt slax and white bucks did my Mullet begin to work social wonders. No sooner had I stepped backstage when no less an arbiter of fashion than Donovan "Nancy Boy" Leitch expressed his admiration for my entire ensemble. Thus filled with piss and vinegar, I even tried to step to Spike "Hans Solo" Jonze, who was positively regaled by my various bon mots. Naturally, my moment in the limelight was cut short as soon as I ventured out into the crowd where several teenage fans made derogatory reference to what they perceived as my "disco Travolta" look. When friendly arch nemesis MCA asked me if it wasn't all getting to be a bit much, I knew the joke was getting old, especially since most people hadn't seen the humor in the first place. So after the show, as we were hanging out in the hotel lobby, Tracy came up behind me and castrated my Mullet right then and there. Employees whispered, authorities reached for their walkie-talkies and tourists gasped as I took two handfuls of my former hair and dropped them in the trash can. So was it all worth it and what did it all mean? No and I don't know, but I can tell you one thing: I somehow feel less of a snob and it sure helped me get more play from Donno and Spike, not to mention better service at House of Pies.
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