EPTAll great books are tales of the human body. Some chapters are devoted to the legs, others to the brain, still more to the heart. Romanticism is about the feet; Modernism is essentially an exposition of the digestive tracts. With Postmodernism we have confronted all bodily functions, and have shied away from nothing. We as breathing, fornicating, shitting humans have realised that nothing as noble as “art” exists, that nothing can be in imitation of life: nothing can occupy a higher plane than we. We have humbled ourselves but in doing so have elevated ourselves to the level of the metaphor. Only the mullet is something that can now be worshipped. How is it possible that something so terrible, so unholy, so profane has come to be the ultimate and only truth?
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You can see the universe in his eyes, but heaven rests in his mullet. The silken folds, the sublime symmetry, the luscious locks: these are scripture to the modern man. We live to emulate his success, the oh-so casual mulletical metaphor.
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What are the locks that rest, what tresses grow out of this kingly head? Son of man, you cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of more mundane hairstyles.
Notice how well the bow-tie compliments the mullet; what a divine match they make. These are men of business yes, but also of pleasure. They are full, wholesome men, gifted with splendid composure and angelic eyebrows.
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Unreal mullet, above the brown haze of a sketchy moustache. The shampooed elegance belies a tough and determined soul.
It is also interesting to note that the word “mullet” is derived from the Latin, “mola”- grindstone. How fitting this is:
Modern man grinds away
Amid the stony rubbish of today.
The next time I visit my local barbershop I am going to request a mullet. While the barber puts his skills to the ultimate test and tends to my sinuous mane, I am going to recite Hamlet to him in the hopes that he will see just how deficient our highest forms of" art" really are in the face of the fulsome and soon to be realised mullet. When he is finished he will hand me a mirror, and I will then look God in the face.
NEW: Ok, due to popular demand (read: Hawk's) here are my top five celebrity mullets in order from least favourite to most.
5. The Fool on the Hill
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Day after day, alone in my bedroom, I pine over the man with this foolish mullet. It’s of the softer variety, less wild and better suited to McCartney’s gentle disposition. Although some people treat this kind of mop with disdain (they reckon it’s gratuitous), Paul is oblivious to their criticisms. Good on him, I say.
4. The Chuck Norris
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This one is just plain scary. There is something so frightening about Norris’ thin lips and grizzled lineaments. The bad-arse factor is compounded by the sleek as hell mullet atop his head. He is the contemporary Medusa, invested with the power to turn those who look upon him into stone. Terrible indeed.
3. The Ziggy Stardust
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The ultimate in streamlined, extra-terrestrial excess, Bowie reputedly borrowed this do from the hipsters of Mars. Calling themselves Spiders, these cats were upset that Bowie had appropriated their hallmark, and so set about to destroy him. They needn’t have bothered: the power of the mullet consumed Bowie, making a leper of him. This is the last known photo of him before his hands were eaten away. Having no fingers, Bowie could no longer play chords on the guitar, which explains why every song of his post ’73 is a monotonous dirge.
2. The One Hit Wonder
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“Hey Billy, should I tell that achy breaky heart of yours that I was never your girl?”
“Hmm, I dunno, let me mullet over.”
1. The Andre
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This one is my absolute favourite due to its surrounding drama.
There is a clear correlation between mullet and ability to whack a soft ball over a net really hard. Think of Bjorn Bjorg and, er…well, clearly they’re countless. Agassi later admitted in his autobiography Open that he wore this lion-mane-style wig in order to cover his baldness. Here is an excerpt from the book in which Agassi relates the debacle which preceded his 1990 French Open Grand Final match:
“The evening before the match I stood under the shower and felt my wig suddenly fall apart. Probably I used the wrong hair rinse. I panicked and called my brother Philly into the room.
“‘It's a total disaster!’ I said to him. He looked at it and said he could clamp it with hair clips.
“It took 20 clips. ‘Do you think it will hold?’ I asked. ‘Just don't move so much,’ he said.
“Of course I could have played without my hairpiece, but what would all the journalists have written if they knew that all the time I was really wearing a wig?
“During the warming-up training before play I prayed. Not for victory, but that my hairpiece would not fall off.
“With each leap, I imagine it falling into the sand. I imagine millions of spectators move closer to their TV sets, their eyes widening and, in dozens of dialects and languages, ask how Andre Agassi's hair has fallen from his head.”
The fact that Agassi lost the match perhaps demonstrates his former psychological reliance on the mullet, and who can blame him? Lesser men have fallen under the bareness of their raw domes, maligned for their loss of manhood and consequentially disconsolate spirits.
Honourable Mention:
The Spoilt Child
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Having spent the better years of my adolescence directing Prince Arthas and the rest of his troupe to and fro around my computer screen, I can say with conviction that the Prince's mullet holds a special place somewhere in my posterior lobes. Although the cinematics appear to show Arthas simply with long hair, this is not how I remember him.
The golden cut befits a sovereign well. Along with his enormous shoulder pads and giant, novelty sized lion belt, Arthas probably would have taken the 80s by storm. It's hammer time.
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