My Husband Has A Mullet
This is my husband.
This is my husband if he had a mullet.
But he doesn’t.
BUT! By the time you finish reading this, perhaps I can say My Husband Has A Mullet.
I need your help with this. All of you. Each and every one.
See, my husband has a special day coming up soon.
And I think if we put our hearts together and collectively wished really hard for him, maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a mullet in time for his birthday this weekend.
A mullet and a slice of pie. Humble pie, that is. (He likes pie.)
A mullet, a slice of humble pie and a hard slap of truth across his White Anglo-Saxon metropolitan-elitist cheek.
I don’t know whether he’s ever had a mullet before. This could be the first time. This could be the fifth time. I can’t be sure.
The subject came up last week during a conversation about — oh, I don’t know — perhaps we were debating the cultural contributions of Billy Ray Cyrus, perhaps we were discussing the fuzz on the block of Swiss cheese I threw out.
But there we were talking about mullets and there I asked the question.
Did you ever have a mullet?
Under normal circumstances, this is the type of critical information about your spouse that you’d already know after 10 years of marriage. Did you ever try to kill someone? Did you dance the Macarena? Did you ever have a mullet?
But my husband — God love ’em — had some terribly awkward adolescent years.
And he pretty much destroyed every piece of photographic evidence that he physically existed during the period of 1987 to 1991 (otherwise known as The Mullet Era).
It’s like the 18-minute gap on the Watergate tapes. It’s like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.
Did my husband have a mullet? The world may never know.
He might have another family, too. I can’t be certain of anything anymore.
“Did I have a mullet?” He turned and looked at me with disgust, like I just accused him of having eyelashes sprouting from his tear ducts. (He does.) Then he stated coolly, matter-of-factly, “People didn’t have those where I grew up.”
Time out. Now this is where I provide some background to help you make sense of why this statement cut me like a knife.
I grew up in a rural community. Tiny. Microscopic. And my husband would be quick to point out that his school cafeteria was more populated than my hometown, that my entire graduating class would’ve fit inside the pottery kiln in his senior high art room.
“What do you mean people didn’t have mullets where you grew up?” By then I was feeling mildly pissed off by what he was insinuating.
And then he threw it at me — out of his mouth like a searing hot spear to the gut.
“Mullets were just a small town thing.”
“I don’t remember a single person in my class having a mullet.”
There again. I’m bleeding by now.
And just like that, the de-evolution of civilization as we know it, blamed once again on the country bumpkins.
But I’ve never been one to cower in the face of social injustice. Oh no. Because that’s when I threw back my shoulders — heart pounding, lip quivering, fists clenching — and climbed atop my mullet soap box.
“I’ll have you know (imagine here that my finger is poking him in the chest — it wasn’t but just imagine this) that mullets were in every city *voice breaks* in America! Mullets showed no geographic discrimination!”
And this is when I brought the house down. (Cue The Battle Hymn of the Republic on the cassette tape player.)
“Mullets did not see black or white, mullets did not see rich or poor. Mullets did not see anything but the human race!
Mullets crossed the bridges of social class, socioeconomic status, race, ethnicity, age, gender, sexual orientation, physical capabilities. Mullets were for everyone — of, by and for the People.
It didn’t matter if you were Joe Sixpack or George Clooney . . .
. . . or Michael J. Fox . . .
. . . or Mel Gibson . . .
. . . or Brad Pitt . . .
. . . who you are never mattered to mullets.
In fact, mullets might have been the greatest shining symbols of equality our country has ever known.”
(I’ll pause to give you time to collect yourselves.)
By the time I had finished speaking, I’m certain my husband knew just how wrong he was. In fact, while he might not have said it in so many words, I believe he was feeling sorry that he ever judged mullets. Maybe he wished he’d known them better. Maybe he wished he had one.
*~* Wish? Did someone say wish? *~*
Remember when I asked earlier that you all wish really hard?
Well just look what we were able to accomplish . . .
Happy birthday to my darling beloved husband.
Remember — the mullet stands with you and never against you, no matter who you are.
Now go chop it off before you scare the children.