What is it Like to Have a Mullet?

A Day on the Dark Side of Hair

I’ve been fascinated by mullets for many years. What possesses people who can afford mirrors to wear such abominable atrocities upon their heads? Now there is a question that needs answering.

Due to my mullet fascination, I’ve wasted a frighteningly large proportion of my life chasing those who sport a haircut of the gods around music festivals and European cities to obtain photos of them in their full glory. It’s like seeing the aftermath of a car crash - you can’t help but stare and think, 'I’m so glad that’s not me.'

A mullet, hunted down in Prague

One night I made the mistake of overindulging in the sweet nectar of Bass Ale and came up with an idea; a plan that seemed so wonderful at the time of its creation that I and my friends cried with joy. Unfortunately, in the slowly sobering light of dawn, my friends were still sobbing with happiness over a fried breakfast while I had lost my appetite, for I had agreed to take on an experiment fraught with the danger of ridicule. I was to get a haircut; my lovely, golden, flowing (OK, thinning is probably a more accurate description) locks were to be chopped. And for 24 hours, at my stag do, I would wear an abomination proudly upon my crown - a mullet.

Before the chop

The day of the stag arrived and I went to see Nicky, a friend of mine who is a hairdresser, and uttered words that I never thought would fall from my tongue, ‘Grade 4 on the top and sides. Leave the back please.’ Two minutes later I was looking at a mullet. I wasn’t laughing. It was on my head.

Oh no, what have I done? The shame, the shame...

I put on a hat and went to The Double Locks in Exeter (the location of the drink-a-thon that was to be), with my now very over excited mates who were gagging to see, stroke and laugh at my malevolent mane. Upon arrival, I noticed a couple of other fine mullets in the vicinity, for at the time the Double Locks was often frequented by bikers, and some bikers have no shame when it comes to hair. But today these other mullets didn’t fill me with much joy. I was in their gang, one of their brethren; an owner of defective hair.

3 pints of Otter and 2 pints of Yellow Hammer later and I felt ready to release my hair crime. And thus it flowed gracefully in the wind. My bravery was rejoiced in and many photos were taken. Lord help me, I have chosen to share them with the planet all over this page. Enjoy (or endure).

Yes, Bez E B, hilarious

I decided to get as much out of this situation as I could. So off I wondered, mingling with bikers and the general public. I found I was being stared at and smirked at quite a lot. One student was actually brave enough to say, ‘Nice mullet,’ to me. I smiled back and said, ‘Thanks.’ It was like a waking night mare.

Oh no, I'm going bald too

Determined to get something valuable from this experience, aside from learning the meaning of shame, I asked myself certain questions that would help me decide why people actually have mullets.

• Did I feel cool, on the cutting edge of style?
  No, definitely not.
• Did a mullet suit me?
  Sadly, yes. And apparently it made me look younger. Bugger.
• Did it keep my neck warm?
  Yes. A genuine mullet bonus. When the sun went in and we were sitting around the camp fire I had no need for a scarf. How jealous my friends were then...
• Did I attract more female attention?
  Yes, but not in a good way. They seemed to laugh at me more.
• Did I get looked at to the point where I felt uncomfortable?
  Yes, but not as much as I expected. I’m sure the practiced mullet spotter would keep their observing hidden as best they can; I know I do. I don’t know if it was paranoia, but I did feel like people were looking at me with that relished awe I have bestowed on mullet wearers on many occasions, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
  

Beer makes everything better

As time went on and I got more drunk I found myself becoming quite proud of my mullet until I actually dropped from consciousness, happy and content with my new look. In the morning, however, the feeling of shame had returned. I drove home with a hat on and the mullet got the chop. Some hours later I felt clean again.

Ah, that's better, a mullet that isn't on my head

In the end this experiment has made my love of mullets even greater. I have concluded that the people who wear them are either eternally drunk or just love being the center of attention. Whatever their reasons we should all worship these wonderful folk, because without them our worlds would be very dull indeed.

And in the meantime I’m awaiting a phone call from the Queen to receive some sort of award or medal of bravery for the hazardous experiment I undertook. Pictures of my visit to the Palace will be available whence the occasion occurs.

Ian Maiden, who was particularly pleased with the photos of my embarrassing hair, decided to build a bar and call it The Mullet’s Head. I am proud to say, of all the pictures we had gathered over the years on our travels around the globe, it was my mullet he chose to decorate his establishment with.