There should be an age of consent for mullets
Rant // Jim // 6th May 2003
I was born in 1974, which meant by the time I was ten years old it was the middle of the eighties. A terrible decade in many ways; Nuclear war paranoia, Thatcher, huge famines and the rise to fame of Jeremy Beadle. However there were even worse things happening in the world of mainstream fashion, things which filtered down to such an extent that pretty soon children were caught up in it.
I was packed off to school every day with odd fluorescent socks, fingerless gloves (preferably one) and a haircut that now in the cruel light of history can only be described as mullet-esque.
It was short on top, non-existent at the sides and lengthy at the back, at one stage there was even a kind of rat-tail thing going on. Horrific, makes me shudder to think about it now.
At the time however I thought it was great, so did all my schoolmates because we all had the same shit haircut, we ran around playing football at lunchtime looking like the bastard offspring of Chris Waddle and the rough one out of “Rita, Sue and Bob Too”.
What chance did we have? Look at the cultural Icons of the time:
Robin Hood - Big Fucking Mullet
Every Footballer Going - Big Fucking Permed Mullet
Daryl Hall and John Oates - Two Big Fucking Mullets
The mullet was everywhere, so everyone had one and then one day, like the dinosaur,
the mullet had gone.
And good riddance, any haircut which makes you look like an extra from On Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest cannot be a good thing.
For years the mullet remained dormant, hair in the 90’s was short or long, never both at the same time. Sure, there were some isolated incidents in America and Eastern Europe but on the whole the mullet was gone, a ghost story told by barbers after a few too many drinks.
But then one day, walking through town I saw something that made me freeze in horror, it was a little boy. He was about seven years old, I think his name was Dazza, at least that is what was written across the shoulders of his Man Utd top. Dazza had the biggest, whitest trainers going, a gold earring and what was probably the worst mullet I had ever seen. It was only the worst ever for a few seconds though as I then caught sight of Dazza’s parents, resplendent in their shell-suits and matching, Stuart Pierce in Italia ‘90, haircuts. Mrs Dazza was pushing a pram containing a fat little kid who had been spared from the mullet only by the virtue that it didn’t have much hair.
I looked at the baby, it looked back at me, we both knew it was on borrowed time, “Save me, save me from that fucking haircut” it seemed to plead, but there was nothing I could do, this baby was doomed.
The whole thing made me realise that the mullet was insinuating its way back into the new millennium and must be stopped. In the case of those over the age of sixteen this can easily be achieved through sustained verbal abuse of the mulletted individual.
In the case of children though, this is more difficult and can lead to criminal prosecution. The only answer is for a blanket ban on the mullet haircut until the age of consent, at which point any sane person will get their hair sorted because the only way you will get a shag in a mullet is by doing it on film.