What I didn’t notice, while my hair was happening (or, in retrospect, thrashing about for air), was that every other kid in school with a mullet was a BOY. And I was a GIRL. Gender identity and all that brouhaha aside, Adult Me is mortified by that fact. I had weird, tangled, ratty, boy hair
For four years.
To over compensate for those lost years, when I decided to grow out The Mullet, I let all of my hair grow—not just the short bits, but the party in back, too. That party just got longer and longer. Past my waist. The business up front grew out to a respectable shoulder length, but that pelt of hair in back drizzled on and on down my back. I can tell you with firsthand authority: a stringy grown-out mullet is just as tacky and unappealing as a tightly trimmed mullet.
I don’t think I cut my hair to one sensible, unified length until halfway through middle school.
The thing is, although no one teased me (to my face) about my hair, ever, I look back on my hair and imagine that somewhere, someone SHOULD HAVE. I was teased about a lot growing up, but never, ever the hair. Which should be a relief it seems, but if people were able to overlook The Mullet in favor of other, presumably “worse” traits, then GOOD GRAVY what else was uncool about me??
My hair looks good now. And despite all anecdotal evidence to the contrary, I’m a much cooler person, too. It’s not that I've become terribly sophisticated or hip over the years; I’ve just learned that nerds are cool. I aim to be comfortable in my own skin, even if it means living up to every taunt ever thrown my way. Thank the Lord I don’t have to live up to mullet mania, though. Hair can change. But deep down, we are what we are, and in my case: dork. Represent!