In praise of this mullet

I'm sitting here not sure if this will be a long or short ode. I just know I need to write it.

My friend Lara—I first met her when we both lived in Knoxville, Tenn., almost six years ago, and now we live just two miles apart in Portland, and our kids are two months apart in age, and they play like friends.

Anyway, she cuts hair. And she cut my hair when I was tired of watching it grow out, itching for something drastic, wanting to give approximately zero-point-two f*cks about this contraption on my head (was I growing it out because I wanted to have long hair, or because I thought I should want it, or because it was some next logical step to some thing that was happening in my life? These were the dumb questions bouncing around my head about some stupid hair).

And so she was like, "what about a mullet?"

And I was, like, "yes."

(Some folks say it's not a mullet. But if I shake my head, the back of my hair swings, the top of my hair stays right in place. I'd say that's the measure.)

And so this mullet. Almost as soon as it was cut into my hair—and I saw all my other dead (more dead than dead) hair on the floor—it hit me all at once what it is to wear a mullet. It's to say "Society, I see these beauty standards you have. And all I've gotta say is 'fuck 'em, and look how goddamn fucking beautiful I am.' "

And basically who needs asterisks to replace the Us in your FUs when you know what the fuck you want to say?