The Shaggy, Bang-Heavy Mini Mullet

At the impending birth of every child, I start nesting. Like seriously crazy. Adam’s arrival was no exception. That included all the to-do things I do for myself, from making sure my toenails were clipped and painted to frequently scrubbing my wedding ring (Who would I think is looking at the dirt on my wedding band? Probably no one, but still…pregnant lady’s gotta be prepared). My hair doesn’t ever escape my attention either.

I’d been growing my hair out for a couple of years and while I love having long, flowing locks, it can be tedious. It’s always getting tangled as it blows in the wind, I’ve caught it on barbed wire, snarled it in burrs, I’ve dipped it in paint more times than I care to admit, I am barely capable of styling it in a ponytail, and the kids are always pulling it, especially babies. Hence, my frantic need to get my hair cut before I had a new baby.

Since the hairstylist I’d been going to for a few years went under during Covid (😢), I had to hunt around and finally settled on a salon not far from my house. The salon was trendy, which always makes me feel out of place because I am not nearly cool enough to step foot in the door. Darn it if I don’t have chicken poo on the bottom of my sandals most times. Maybe my discomfort should have been a sign, but I had promised Zoey a little girl time and we were already there. She went first and happily sat in the chair for a trim–she’s growing her hair out so she can wear it in a braid same as Elsa, ’cause honestly, who doesn’t want a braid like her?

After Zoey’s haircut, the stylist put in two adorable Dutch braids for Zoey and she was so thrilled. Why? Everyone knows two is better than one! We were off to a great start. And that’s about where it ended. I don’t want to be overly critical of the stylist–cutting hair is not my forte and I bow to anyone who has that skill–but my turn in the chair was…disappointing. I had shown her some photos, we discussed our plan of attack, she giggled nervously about cutting off over a foot of my hair, I giggled nervously because she was nervous. Suffice it to say, I didn’t end up with the haircut I was hoping for. Instead of short, shaggy, fun layers, I had a limp, lifeless bob that was even lopsided. Fun.

How Adam and I felt about my blah haircut. Boo…

In a word, I was bummed. Yes, hair grows back, but with a boring haircut, I would have rather stuck with my long, wild mane of hair and risked Adam getting tangled in it.

All was not lost though. Since my hair actually wasn’t as short as I’d originally wanted it, I figured I had a little wiggle room to try again. Over the Fourth of July, we were visiting with family and my sister-in-law happens to cut hair. So, I convinced Claire and Evelyn to get their hair chopped off so we could all donate together. They have such beautiful hair and are happy to share it with others. Kate? They prefer their hair long, though I sometimes have no idea why. Brushes are the bane of her existence and she rarely gives anyone the opportunity to fix her beautiful brunette hair. She’s a conundrum for certain. 

Claire has always been able to pull off short hair. Remember the time she got bubble gum stuck in it? Good times. That was first time since being a bald-headed infant it was that cropped. But honestly, she could pull off anything. I think short hair highlights her adorable smile and matching dimple and like me, she loves funky layers. Even if she buzzed all her hair off, she’d figure out a way to style it. I am in awe of her creativity and what she can do with a comb and a couple rubber hair ties, some fake flowers, a ribbon, or a clip.

It would have made sense for me to sit in my sister-in-law’s makeshift styling chair and let her work her magic, but I had already made arrangements with a different stylist. Maybe I thought in Nebraska rather than Indiana I’d have better luck? Who knows. I went to my appointment, showed her the picture I’d shown the original stylist, tried my best to explain where I thought she’d gone wrong and made it very clear that I wanted it more “interesting.”

Interesting is what I got. While it certainly more dynamic, yet again, it wasn’t the hairstyle I’d set my sights on. Yes, I know everyone’s hair lays diffently and yada, yada, yada, but there were some major red flags. For one, I adamantly declared I did not want bangs. Nooooo bangs. None. Instead, I feel like I got an entire head full of thick, annoying bangs that are too short to tuck behind my ears, but long enough that they hang right in my line of sight no matter what I’m looking at. As far as I’m concerned, those kinds of bangs are their own kind of torture. As they’re growing out, I keep getting the sensation that I’m an Old English Sheepdog. Gee, I wonder why?

I wish I looked this cute with curtain bangs.

I wish the bangs were the worst part. As my hair started growing out, it gave way to one of my worst nightmares: the mullet. That’s right. It might not have been the most severe mullet I’ve ever witnessed in my life, but there was some definite short in the front, unnaturally long in the back going on. Jack may have gotten tired of catching me crying over my baby mullet when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Chalk it up to post-baby hormones, but in my opinion, a mullet is worth shedding a few tears over.

Face redacted to protect mullet owner’s identity. Trust me–it was much worse in person.

Two strikes and I was still no closer to being satisfied with my haircut. I couldn’t figure out how to style it–my go-to ponytail was out. I wondered if I should borrow Jack’s hair care products, but kept chickening out because I didn’t want to smell like a guy (yummy on him, not on me). On top of feeling like an redneck Old English Sheepdog, I could see hints of Professor Snape if I parted my hair in the center (love you, Alan Rickman! Just don’t want to look like Snape) and if I rolled out of bed, sometimes my hair looked like Lois from Malcom in the Middle (again, love you, Lois! Just don’t want to have your bouffant hair!). I spent way, way too much time worrying about it. Vain? You bet. Sick of wondering if everyone else was seeing the same mullet (Jack tried to reassure me they weren’t but did I believe him? Nope), I decided the only logical thing to do would be to get another haircut. I figured if I struck out, I could always shave my head and start with a clean slate. Couldn’t get any worse!

Evelyn, Claire, and my hair are ready to be used for wigs!

I made a desperate call to the same friend who rescued Claire from her bubble gum trim and hoped I didn’t seem too neurotic when I told her I had a truly heinous haircut. Crossing my fingers, I sort of invited myself over. She was so, so generous in letting me swing by on a precious Saturday, and in half an hour, she clipped off a few inches and blended it so it looked like a more cohesive haircut. As if the heavens parted, my mullet was no more. In fact, I actually liked the haircut.

It doesn’t hurt that Jack bought me some gnarly earrings that make me look way cooler than I am.