Last weekend, my family gathered together for my cousin's wedding. It was everything a family wedding is supposed be: slightly precarious, very beautiful, exhausting, light-hearted, memorable. We aren't a high drama family for the most part. We keep our mean-spirited derogatory comments to ourselves and we don't talk politics EVER (unless under the influence of red wine and then everything is free game). We do have a penchant, however, to pull out the embarrassing family photos.
Last weekend, I was the target of much family banter. Let us not beat around the bush: I had a mullet circa age 6. This was followed by the poof-ball circa age 7. Which was followed by a bowl cut circa ages 8-10 (three horrible years).
My mom says the mullet was a "pixie cut" and it was cute! She nearly swore that she didn't even know what a mullet was. She says that I wanted a perm, so the poof is my fault. And she says that Dorothy Hamil wore a bowl cut for ages and pulled if off wonderfully and that it was extremely practical (read: I hated letting her brush my hair).
The funniest part? My uncle had a mullet for a while, too. We were haircut buddies in the early nineties. We are both glad that is over.
Is it a fourth commandment violation to say, "Mom, I praise God you aren't in charge of my hair anymore!"? Because its true. Even if my hair is a regular moppy mess. At least its not a mullet.