Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday Confessional: Take me to your mullet
I miss hair bands.
Like this... (more below)
I miss seeing rock stars with long, gorgeous hair. (I think this explains a lot about the era in which my first novel is set.)
I don't, however, miss mullets. Like the one my husband once had. He doesn't sport one anymore. Thankfully.
But he did. I used to tell him he looked like one of the survivors of Lynyrd Skynrd's plane crash.
He took it as a compliment. He was proud of his honest-to-goodness, head-banging, Joe-Dirt mullet.
Once -- when he still had his mullet -- we stopped at a gas station in Kansas. A pick-up truck full of redneck teens (hey, they had shotguns in the back window) started pulling out of the parking lot just as we climbed out of the car.
I kid you not: The driver of the truck slammed on his brakes, leaned out the window and cried out, "Hey, that's Joe Dirt!"
The excitement in his voice suggested the kid had just seen God. He hadn't. He'd only seen a hair lord.
Deep down, I'm pretty sure my husband knew the kid was playing with him. Dana didn't care. He pumped his fists in the air and hollered back, "Yeah, man, right on."
And I ducked back into my seat.
Yep, I really miss hair bands. Some of the hair styles. . .not so much.
What's the worst hair style you've ever had?