Bemoaning the Era of the Post-Modern Mullet

Forgive me.  Forgive me in advance for the truly intemperate, intolerant things I’m about to say.  Forgive me if I hurt your feelings or betray myself as being too old to understand.  I don’t want to upset anyone or hurt anybody, but sometimes the truth is a blunt instrument – probably a bassoon – and the kindest thing to do is simply to blow it and damn the consequences.  I speak, of course, of haircuts.

We were at a shopping centre.  You may disapprove, but we’re entitled as anyone to do our Christmas shopping without experiencing a wholesale assault of the senses.  We walked (as you do when you’re at a shopping centre) for what seemed like hours and time and time again were confronted by the sight of young men, often in groups, sporting a haircut known as a ‘mullet’.

For those unfamiliar with the term, a mullet is the ‘platypus’ of haircuts.  Just as a platypus looks like several different animals rolled into one, a mullet consists of two types of haircut that are diametrically opposed.  Like ‘fire’ and ‘ice’.  Like ‘oil’ and ‘water’.  Like ‘good taste’ and ‘Married at First Sight’.  Some things simply cannot co-exist peacefully.

A mullet consists of short hair, generally located at the front of the victim’s subject’s skull, combined with long hair at rear.  The logic – such as it is – being ‘business up front, party at the back’.  It was the haircut that defined the eighties.  If that sounds like a somewhat pathetic achievement, you need to remember how competitive haircuts were back then.  It was an era that featured titans like the ‘blow wave’ and ‘the man-perm’.  Ultimately, they were no match for the mighty mullet.

As someone who grew up in the eighties, I aspired to have a mullet. My dreams, however, were cruelled by a school rule that strictly forbade boys to have hair that touched the collar of their shirt.  Flouting this rule was all in a day’s work for some, who insisted on growing their hair out until a teacher intervened and threatened to cut it on the spot.  The resulting handiwork was proof – if it were needed – that hairdressing is a skill acquired through training and not at teacher’s college.

But as human beings, we evolve.  That is, if we’re lucky.  With the benefit of hindsight and, possibly, a mirror, we came to understand that the mullet was an incredibly ugly haircut that not so much failed to flatter the host as it did insult them outright.  Eventually, mullets went the way of acid wash jeans and were quietly retired at some point in the nineties.  Granted, there was the occasional resurgence, including one led by Billy Ray Cyrus and his magical carpet of hair; who brazenly boot-scooted to distract you from the tonsorial atrocity that was perched on top of his head.  The horror.

Quite literally, I thought all that ugliness was behind us.  Turns out I was wrong.  A mere thirty-five years later and it seems that young men have embraced the mullet with a disturbing level of enthusiasm.  Worse still, they have taken this most tragic of haircuts and made it worse with a series of new and horrifying additions.  These include a bowl-cut at the front; presumably to get the ‘demonic altar boy’ look that everyone’s been raving about.  What’s happening out back only makes it worse.

There are two models of modern mullet.  There’s the one where the long hair at the back is teased or curled to give the impression of some kind of ‘hair explosion’ from a flatulent skull.  The other is lank and creates the impression of having only recently been released from prison.  Both kinds are all kinds of ugly.  It’s as though young men everywhere are participating in some kind of competition, vying for the title of ‘world’s rudest head’. 

Perhaps I’m too old and don’t understand.  Maybe I’m jealous at not being able to grow so luxurious a mullet of my own.  For all I know, these haircuts are a part of a sincere albeit misguided vow of abstinence by these young men.  Or perhaps it hurts to see the mistakes of the past being so hideously repeated by the next generation.  I’m not sure.  All I know is that you ought not go out of your way to have a head that looks like a dropped pie.  You can do better.  Humanity is begging you.

Naturally, I said nothing as they sauntered past me in the shopping centre.  As much as I wanted to walk up to one of these young men, grab him by the shoulders and shake him whilst screaming, ‘IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS SACRED, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING??????’ I refrained, because I thought there was a slight chance that I might be misunderstood.  Instead, I said nothing.  Perhaps I subtly shook my head in disbelief and, granted, there was the slightest hint of a tear in my eye, but I kept my thoughts to myself. 

If you’re reading this and are sporting a renaissance mullet, I beg you to reconsider.  You’ll be glad you did.  But if, after reading this story and viewing footage from the eighties, you remain unconvinced, then I simply can’t help.  Just know that I’m disappointed by your decision and that you broke my heart.  My achy, breaky heart.

The Flying Folk Club Spandex Spectacular

The moment has arrived.  After three decades of retirement, I am returning to the stage.  I’m not sure I’m ready.  And I’m certain the gig-going public are equally unprepared for the musical maelstrom that’s about to be unleashed.  Doubtless, there will yelling, screaming and thrashing about – that’s certainly the way audiences used to react to my efforts. Luckily, I have lots of experience. 

Musicians are often lured out of retirement with the promise of obscene riches.  Not me.  My glorious return has been secured on the vague promise of a complimentary counter meal.  I’m pretty sure The Eagles insisted on more than a chicken parma before agreeing to play ‘Hotel California’ for the three millionth time.  In actual fact, I’ll be paying to play.  Whilst shelling out your own hard-earned cash is not very rock roll, even the most hardcore musician must accept that there are reasonable administrative fees associated with these kinds of events.  Rock on!

I agreed to perform at a folk club theme night.  I have never before performed at a folk club theme night.  But I’m going to assume that a gig is a gig and it’ll be much the same as the gigs I played in the eighties.  Which is when I last performed.  Suffice to say, I’m quietly confident that I won’t be the only performer on the night wearing spandex.  Or who brings home made pyrotechnics.  I plan to arrive early so I can attach a cable to the roof, which I’ll connect to harness so as to recreate ‘The Flying Jon’ from the ‘Living In A Prayer’ video by Bon Jovi.  You can learn a lot from that music video.  Or, if not a lot, then how to fly out over an audience.

The theme for the night was ‘metals’.  Given my experience out the front of a hard rock combo in the metal era, this was clearly playing to my strengths. Unfortunately, the rules required that the song reference a metal of some kind rather than the band itself, completely ruining my plan to do an entire set of Nickelback songs on ukulele and washboard.  We asked to do ‘Brass in Pocket’ but someone else had already claimed it. We were left with no choice – we would need to write our own song.

As themes go, ‘metals’ is interesting.  There are lots of songs about gold and silver. There’s at least one about titanium.  Maybe copper, too. But there are plenty of metals that never get a look in.  It was time to set the second straight.  

We decided to write verses that referenced other musicians and their metal songs.  It resulted in lines such as ‘Bing Crosby’s Silver Bells, is a journey into hell’ and ‘If you want to keep it classy, then sing some Shirley Bassey’.  That kind of thing. For the chorus, we listed less popular metals like Zinc, Praseodymium and Gadolinium, noting that incorporating them into a song could see you become ‘Tungsten tied’.  We were all set to perform.

The great thing about spandex is that it stretches. In practical terms, it means I can use the same spandex bodysuit I used in the nineteen eighties for my gig. Granted, the leopard skin pattern was being forced into some pretty unusual shapes and, frankly, it looked as though it belonged to a really big leopard, but I figured if I wore it to work the day before, it should be alright on the night.

When the day arrived, we got to the folk club early. I attached my ‘Flying Jon’ harness to the roof.  Ideally, the roof would be eight metres high.  Unfortunately, the roof was two and a half metres tall, practically guaranteeing that when I leapt, I’d take out tables four through seven. Everyone has to make sacrifices; in this case tables four through seven.  That’s showbiz.

As other performers arrived, a certain theme emerged.  Namely, flannel. I began to feel self conscious. No-one wants to be the spandex cork bobbing in a sea of lumberjacks.   Ironically, a leopard’s spots are to help him camouflage himself.  Leopard skin print on a body suit, however, was having much the opposite effect.  I sat patiently at our table and ordered my complimentary chicken parma from the bar.

Finally, it was our turn to hit the stage.  The crowd fell into a stunned silence as we entered.  It is, I later learned, unusual for acts at a folk club to emerge through a curtain of dry ice. As we started to strum our guitars, I decided it was time to leap into the audience.  Luckily, the cable to the roof remained firmly in place. The same, however, could not be said for my leopard skin jump suit.  The additional strain of the harness and cable was too much.  With its physical integrity fatally compromised; table four was confronted by the sight of a middle age man bursting out of a leopard whilst strumming a ‘G’ chord.  They didn’t cheer so much as scream.

To say that I hit the wrong note would be something of an understatement.  I immediately announced my retirement.  It suits me.  The leopard skin spandex jump suit has been buried in the back yard.  It’s for the best.  Indeed, it may be another thirty years before I perform in public again.  But when I do, watch out!  Especially if you’re seated at tables four through seven.