Business in the Front

My wife, using colorful words that I won’t repeat here, had the audacity to accuse me of being obsessed with my hair. My first instinct, of course, is to strongly deny this unfounded indictment and explain to you the reason my affinity for my hair is most decidedly NOT an obsession. I am not balding, newly consumed by creating the perfect combover to cover a growing bald spot. In fact, I have the opposite problem—unruly, thick hair that has always had a mind of its own.

For my entire life, controlling the disaster that is my hair has been an exhausting pursuit. When I was younger, it involved my mom lunging at me to spit-smooth my hair; as I got older, I took over and began my relentless quest for the miracle smoothing gel, pomade, straightening mouse—whatever promised compliant hair.

When I moved up the corporate ladder, it became important that I cultivated a coifed, self-assured style that mimicked the looks my coworkers paid over a hundred dollars for, styles that required trips to their hipster “barber” every three weeks. It didn’t seem fair to hold my hair to those unrealistic standards—the struggle was real.

And then, Covid happened. During the pandemic, away from the office, people began to adopt a less professional public image. I felt the tyrannical need to control my hair loosening as I remained sequestered in my house. This new way of life was less than inspiring, but admittedly, wildly freeing. I no longer had to worry about looking put together all the time. Or at all.

When I wasn’t immersing myself in the imaginal television world, I was spending hours upon hours looking at another screen—my computer screen. Those endless, soul-crushing zoom meeting marathons. For a time, we all tried to maintain the company dress code during meetings. But then, in a slow-burning rebellion, we started to make jokes about business on top, party down below. This awakening inspired intense, secret competitions to sport, undetected, the most hideous pants while maintaining a monotone delivery of whatever metrics we were supposed to present in one of our company meetings. It was risky though: one wrong move, and your workmates would know that you secretly enjoyed wearing dinosaur pajamas.

The whole business on top concept reminded me of a duality in hair culture: business in the front, party in the back. The mullet. The long-maligned, often ridiculed but also iconic haircut that is the stuff of legends. If you’re not familiar, it is basically a haircut that looks professional (enough) in the front, generally short and styled to look like any other layered haircut. But where its status is elevated is the back: all one length, long enough to tie back in a ponytail or leave loose, proving to the world that you just don’t care. It can be worn curly or straight, depending on the occasion. And it’s practical: it keeps your neck warm without having to wear some douchey-looking scarf!

Don’t get me wrong, the mullet has had its share of controversy. Songs have been written about it and people make unfair assumptions that a mullet enthusiast might be into tractor pulls and crappy beer; however, it also had its moment on the punk scene, its wearer regarded as a rebel, a nonconformist. Cool, right? Despite its magnificent versatility, the mullet never became a hairstyle typically seen in downtown Manhattan--it remained neglected by the high fashion scene. I believe the mullet’s overexposure reduced it to a maligned stereotype, robbing the world of the opportunity to fully embrace its cultural importance.

But then something flipped, and it became “ironic” to get a mullet, to boldly embrace this attention-grabbing hair choice. And I swear this is true, there are websites specifically devoted to the mullet, depicting its varied iterations: the Monday mullet, mullets across America (a mullet in Pennsylvania is clearly different from a mullet in Alabama), rat tails, skullets, mohawk mullets, K Pop. I promise you, google mullet and you’ll find yourself riveted for the next half hour. Did you know that someone who doesn’t wear a mullet is called a cold neck?

While I engaged in relentless doom scrolling, I started to see pictures of my friends on Facebook rocking mullets. And let me clarify—these are not people who would have EVER worn a mullet before. At first, we all laughed, one-upping each other in the comments, pretending we weren’t jealous that our buddy’s wife allowed him to get a mullet. Yes, I say allowed, because we all know what can happen when we do something our wives don’t find attractive. I’m not ready to admit that my wife Susan is always right, but I’ve never found it to be anything less than painful when I go against her fashion advice. Or her advice in general.

One day, Susan saw me, mesmerized by my buddy John's latest Instagram reel showcasing his mullet. She innocently made her biggest rookie move (so far) in our marriage by uttering these words:

“I bet you would look super hot with a mullet.” In hindsight, she was just messing with me, but I chose to take this as a challenge to reclaim my masculinity.

Oh yeah, Susan, it’s on!

***

I am not one to do anything halfway. I did my research, poring over the appropriate websites, consulting with my friends, buying the proper tools. It wasn’t hard to find the right information, as the mullet was experiencing a cultural resurgence and as we all know, everyone has opinions and advice for achieving the right mullet for “your lifestyle.”

Since I now had my wife’s support and professional hairstylists were banned from working during the pandemic, Susan became my hair’s artistic director. Together, we watched You Tube videos, absorbing the endless Tips and Tricks and mullet commentaries. I could tell Susan was enjoying this distraction from the joys of pandemic home schooling while also working remotely full-time as a marketing manager. She was relishing building my brand as we perfected the mullet that best told “my story.”

Unfortunately, instead of creating my brand, Susan created a monster. Once we settled on my curated mullet, she moved on to other pursuits, assuming the novelty of my new persona would wear off. It most certainly did not. In fact, I became enthralled by the likes that my mullet postings would get, dissecting the comments, eagerly accepting people’s dares for alterations to my mullet. When I left the house to run the few errands that were allowed during the pandemic, I wasn’t just another generic, mask-wearing guy. I was the guy with the mullet. And I was proud.

Everywhere I went, I was instantly memorable; I made people smile. I didn’t care if their smile was one of disbelief combined with a small measure of horror. I was owning my mullet, and for the first time, didn’t feel I needed to apologize for the state of my hair. This was an intentional choice, a commitment.

The best part about my mullet was its business in the front core philosophy. I was responsible for running an insane amount of zoom meetings, and the company has a “camera on” policy. I could wear my button-down shirt, tie, and show my most professional self, while still maintaining my chosen hairstyle.

I made the mistake once of turning to the side during a zoom happy hour with my friends, and my buddies wouldn’t stop laughing about the fact that I “still” had that mullet. When I managed to mumble, “Come on bro, don’t hate,” this sent them into more heckling and raucous laughter. My pride wounded, I was starting to see that my once revered mullet was quite possibly lowering my social status.

Not ready to relinquish the mullet to meet these oppressive societal norms, I began employing elaborate strategies to ensure that I was always fully facing forward during zoom interactions. My neck and shoulders were sore by the end of the day from maintaining this rigid posture, but I’m proud of the level of self-control I was able to maintain. The party aspect of my hair remained safely suppressed.

***

At first, I thought I was imagining things, but it became undeniable that the mullet fascination was fading. People were getting tired of the pandemic’s isolation and seemed to be seeking more meaningful ways to connect. I started to feel like I was one of the only people who might still be interested in joining a mullet community. And, my wife, bless her, was getting tired of the exacting instructions I stipulated when she cut my hair. At one point she threatened to “Flowbee me;” luckily, she realized she had crossed a line and apologized, her laughter barely hidden. Her mockery bothered me, but worrying about the opinions of others is something that a card-carrying mullet loyalist must never do.

Unless the opinion is that of your boss. Actually not opinion, but directive that is tied to earning a paycheck. My relationship with my mullet was in real jeopardy, as we were told that we needed to go back to the office, at least 50% of the time.

My mullet was in the clear for zoom meetings, but what would I do on the days I had to go into the office? Our work culture was stiflingly professional, so there was no ponytail or baseball cap option. I started thinking of all the ways I could legally protest having to cut my mullet—religious reasons, health (I have a cold neck condition), First Amendment rights, or arguing the emotional support mullet angle. I had moments of realizing I might have crossed over into obsession, but I wasn’t ready to surrender. My mullet had taught me to become unapologetic about my hair, to embrace my true hair identity. I guess it didn’t take a genius to see that my mullet had become a metaphor for how I wanted to live my life.

I thought about talking to my boss about this, but he played by the rules, taking pleasure in making rules about the rules. I wondered if I demoted myself from management, I might find more room for self-expression. I could hear Susan’s voice, “Are you out of your freaking mind?” with my own silent answer, “Yes, Susan, maybe just a little bit.”

I knew it was time to end my era of the mullet. My rational mind told me I could always grow it back. That it was just hair, not a deep expression of who I was. But the mullet philosophy truly does capture who I am: I take care of business, AND I can be the life of the party. I am a dichotomy, a renaissance man. An onion, many layers to peel.

And a husband who needed to keep his job. Deep in my soul, I knew the moment had come: the world was forcing my hair to retreat to its natural state. Goodbye, awe-inspiring mullet of mine. Until we meet again.

And Susan, you know you loved it.