Whoa! Lots of stuff's been going down in Los Angeles lately: Fires, poor air quality, a pending writers' strike (always a writers' strike, never an authors' strike), my favorite Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Hollywood cemetery, and the Murakami exhibit opening at MOCA.
But I'm going to talk about my hair.
I went to my stylist, Viva, in Palm Springs, sipping decaf while enduring the application of numerous highlights, then skimming a whole stack of fluff magazines as my scalp baked in the surround-swelter of 3 discoid radiant heat lamps. Then Viva took up her shears and razor and commenced doing what she always does, which is chop through my thatch of Bushman-like locks, giving it her best shot to produce something akin to "texture" so that I don't look like I'm wearing a brown bike helmet all day.
"I think I'm going to try something new," Viva said, gesturing across the top of my head. "I'm going to cut it short-to-long over here, and long-to-short over here."
"Cool," I said. "Go for it. Make salad."
"Oh, and what about this?" she said, pulling on the wisps at the nape of my neck.
"Um," I said. "I like those."
"Good, because everyone always wants me to cut them off, but they're my favorite."
"OK, leave 'em."
When I got home that night, Pontifica--on her way to kiss me--stopped dead in her tracks.
I found myself unwilling to register her expression. "What?"
Pontifica took me by the shoulders, and made very grave eye contact. "I'm sorry, honey, but that is darn close to a mullet."
I ran to the mirror, turned to look at my profile, and...AAAK! Indeed it was...darn close to a mullet.
But was it still an attractive sort of mullet? Or even better, a subtle, pushing-the-boundaries sort of naughty self-referencing wink, maybe, to the mullet, without actually being one? God, I hoped so.
Help me decide, please! Come visit my table at Palm Springs Pride, November 3rd at 2 p.m., where I'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive, a book I wrote in my pre-mullet days.
I'll love you no matter what, Billy Ray Cyrus.
Posted by: Mick | October 29, 2007 at 07:11 PM
This is awesome. For years, I've been trying to sell my younger friends on the idea of bringing back the "ironic mullet". They weren't have any part of it. Maybe you can set a new trend. The mullet needs to be snatched back from the hands of country western singers and returned to the rightful possession of militant young dykes everywhere! "Business in the front. Party in the back." Yeah!
Posted by: GeekPornGirl | November 16, 2007 at 09:26 PM
I'd love to bring back the iron mullet. I'd also love to write a book called: Lesbian in the Iron Mullet.
Posted by: Leslie Lange | December 03, 2007 at 07:42 PM