The Epic Battle Between Man and His Hair

October 23, 2015:

And now we come to the “Back to the Future” Day Week celebration’s main event:

Working Cover for
Working Cover for “My First Mullet”

In the year 2000, I began My First Mullet, a series of poems about man’s epic struggle with his hair, the nefarious mullet that somehow becomes part of him, a four-part skirmish in which he attempts to vanquish his foe through the shear might of…well, a pair of shears. In the year 2011, I came back to finish the chronicle of the man who is now at full-scale war against his trashy shaggy nemesis, where the battle is no longer personal, but a clear struggle between good and evil. And even though I wrote well past the eight poems that told of the war to chronicle the “collateral damage” caused by the event, I wanted to celebrate Back to the Future Day with the installments that tell of the direct conflict.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you My First Mullet, parts 1-8, in their complete, unaltered forms. Enjoy and comment at the end.

My First Mullet—The Prologue

.

I thought it was a nice day to start again,

Since the past dished rough times on my head,

Blowing fierce wind all through my hair,

Tangling long locks in front of my eyes,

Blinding me to the truth that hid on my scalp;

Revelation that a jungle weeded out from within me.

.

I discovered the hard facts when my reflection vanished,

Which resulted from losing sight of my mirror,

Blocked by the curtain hanging and tangling before me,

Leaving maybe glimmers of the image I looked for,

But screaming that I was wasting my time trying,

Therefore awakening the need for some chopping.

.

I took a trip to the upscale downtown shear shop,

Where guys in white coats snipped and cut people’s heads,

Trimming former shrubs into sculpted bushes of art,

Applying buzzers against the narrow lawns near naked ears,

Dropping dead strings and body mulch to the floor,

Leaving a new kind of carpet for the scissors people to sweep.

.

I was called to sit in the chair of reconstruction,

Where the Sultan of Shears held his tool against my neck,

Asking what kind of transformation I expected that day,

Which I suggested just cut and go and maybe surprise me,

So the metal edges of the chop device began before my eyes,

Clearing out the obstruction that blinded and annoyed me.

.

I twiddled my thumbs underneath a plastic sheet,

Waiting for the job to be done without complication,

But something occurred to me in the middle of my surgery,

That I liked the length of my back and desired to keep it,

So I asked the hair doctor to leave my reverse side alone,

Just to sculpt me so that I could have vision before I left.

.

I left the building when the project became success,

Proud that my vision returned and my hair maintained control,

But my joy had depleted after going home to watch TV,

To see one of the trash talk shows coming on air with high volume,

Revealing its guests in all their bickering glory,

Each wearing the same haircut I knew I just received.

.

I looked in the mirror to discover my folly,

Shaping what should have been a normal style of trim,

Into something that was disproportional and found on truckers,

Which would’ve been okay if I drove diesel behemoths,

But I didn’t so I could not handle the barber’s new creation,

So I decided to find some scissors and remove my first mullet.

.

My First Mullet—The Transition

.

I never used to care about hair,

It was always something that was just there.

.

But when I knew it was getting long,

Ignoring it would’ve just been wrong.

.

I decided I would get it chopped,

Down at the local barber shop.

.

But when I felt the trim completing,

I could feel my dear dignity depleting.

.

I thought short was the way to go,

Since that’s the only style I know.

.

But scissors stopped above my brow,

Leaving the back of my head to grow.

.

Now my hair flows a funny way,

Stuck to the top with back blowing away.

.

It’s like a raccoon cap glued to my head,

Without the stripes or fur to shed.

.

It also makes my neck feel hot,

Especially since I sweat a lot.

.

But I’m disappointed about this no matter what,

Because I wish I never got my first mullet.

.

It forces on me an achy-breaky heart,

Tempting me to rip it savagely apart.

.

Now that I have scissors in hand,

I’m slashing the back to fit my demand.

.

I may not care a whole lot about hair,

But I know when people start to stare.

.

My First Mullet—The Aftershock

.

Why do you torment me,

Hair among hair?

You flop short of my forehead,

But flow like a cape down my back.

Waves twist around my neck,

As you are careful not to touch my eyes.

Now I know what it feels like,

To be an eighties rock star.

.

I did not expect your arrival,

Hair among hair.

Barbers informed me of a new style,

Insisting it would be cool.

Then they cut me in places,

Leaving others alone.

I demanded scissors at each angle,

But they lost their tip instead.

.

My heart is now sunken,

Hair among hair.

I wanted total hair shortness,

But must deal with shortcoming.

I used to find enjoyment,

In the way the wind touched you.

But now you’re so uneven,

And people just want to make fun.

.

You may be my first mullet,

But with these shears I must make you

My last.

.

My First MulletThe Apocalypse

.

A pile of you lies on my floor,

As I hold shear victory in my hand.

My blades scoff at your weakness,

Taunting back the curses you spat—

Curses aimed at the top of my head,

Insults you hurled from the back of my neck.

.

You thought you could hurt me,

With your devastating look of lunacy.

But your attack failed by my hand,

So now you must suffer your fate—

To be swept up and thrown away,

Like careers of musicians who once wore you.

.

You lost my respect at the barber’s chair,

But there was nothing I could do.

You convinced the stylist you were cool,

Secretly crossing your fingers and laughing—

Those strands that tangled behind my neck,

Which I could never see without angled reflection.

.

You may have won that first victory,

When the stylist ignored my plea to cut.

But the scissors in my hand says never again,

Your decimation proven by my face in a mirror—

Which reflects back a short uniform hair helmet,

Completely free of extra mullet residue.

.

Except…

.

Somehow I can see you trying to attack again,

Creeping your way down the back of my neck,

Without coming anywhere close to my eyes,

Making me wish that you would blind me.

.

My First Mullet—The Immaculate Collection

.

Ten years ago the mullet died.

Clipped from the source of life it fed upon,

Fallen to the linoleum earth,

Swept away,

Bagged and shipped to the landfill of time.

.

Fifteen years ago it abandoned style.

Gone was its fame, dying was its fate,

Missed by none, duped by some,

It lost its grace,

Heading for the wasteland of time.

.

Twenty years ago it tempted fate.

Born on the head of a Lethal Weapon,

Dancing on the head of rock star generals,

In the breeze it swayed,

Riding on the glories of time.

.

But then…

.

Caught in time’s spiraling vortex,

The mullet spun out of control,

Clawing its way to the present,

Fighting to survive its apocalyptic fate,

Vying to conquer the world again.

.

Mullet explosion!

.

Today it experienced rebirth,

Gaining new fame online.

From business in the front, to parties in the back,

The mullet returns from the grave.

Immaculately, it rises.

.

My First Mullet—Shear Brutality

.

They rise up, seeking hair.

The blades of justice,

The blades unfair.

They seek the scent

Of misshapen style;

They search for trashiness;

They invade without guile.

.

Modernization under cover

A quiet closet eighties lover,

It was a rock-born sympathizer,

A trailer park’s lucky clover;

Jeopardy, it shrieks at scissoric threat

The blades had cast from the net,

And the fear makes it sweat;

It hides, but cannot run.

.

Madness comes, chaos ensues;

The blades of shears come flying.

.

The hairnet breaks, the mullet quakes;

A hairpiece has fear of dying.

.

Tragedy falls from the gown to the floor,

A sink washes life out the door.

.

Lament the mullet at the hands of fate,

Shear brutality forces a cleaned-up slate.

.

My First Mullet—Failure of a Stylist

.

Eyes peer at me through the mirror,

While a smile feigns delight,

Her expression becomes a twinkling,

As her clippers say goodnight.

.

My stylist bounces from the chair,

To the victor go the spoils.

Does she think I want to pay for this?

She hardly even toiled.

.

“What were you thinking?” I begin to say,

Out loud in a lucid daydream;

Of course she doesn’t hear the question,

For she’s focused on her styling cream.

.

I attempt to ask another question:

“Could you take a little more off the back?”

As she squirts the cloying foam in hand,

She grimaces; do I lack tact?

.

“Oh come now,” she says with a cackle,

“The girls are gonna love it,

You’ll be the talk of this crazy town,

No woman can resist a mullet.”

.

A fear begins to grip me,

For I’ve been in this place before.

Is my stylist just an idiot,

Or does she have an agenda something more?

.

“I’d really like a shorter cut,”

But my words fall on deaf ears.

Before she gives me my chance to object,

She puts away her shears.

.

“That’ll be thirty bucks,” she says with joy,

“But here’s a kiss for luck,”

Of course she can hardly control her lips,

For her laughter becomes untucked.

.

She must know she won’t see a tip from me;

Only madmen reward a fool,

But as her fingers remove my tainted gown,

I realize I must remain cool.

.

There’s one more chance to counter, I realize,

Last one before we hit the sink,

Once the shampoo dampens what remains of me,

My heart will be in the drink.

.

As she swiftly wheels my chair around,

And beckons me forward off my seat,

My heels stamp the stark linoleum floor,

And my body whirls from my feet.

.

Once again I’m facing the cold, clear mirror,

Eyes locking gaze with reflective eyes,

Her hardened expression dares my action,

But my hand ignores her cries.

.

I reach for the dormant and silent clippers,

Taking matters into my own hands.

But then my distracted head jerks backward;

She’s taken my mullet into her own hands.

.

“Revenge,” she whispers into my buzzing ears,

“Sickly sweet, my handsome dear,

Never distrust a stylist’s rightful eye,

If you want to know no fear.”

.

I shudder to think what she’s thinking about,

And then it dawns on me.

I once questioned her on that “cool” bowl cut,

And challenged her integrity.

.

Idiot maybe, but not a fool;

She had me in her hair-stained grip.

Once again I screamed that she was right;

Then she forced me to give that tip.

.

My First Mullet—My Second Mullet Rises

.

“What’s that thumping sound, little boy?

The beating of your fearing heart?

Did you reverse your hillbilly beard this morning?

Your back hair grow upward into your brain?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“Why are you running so quickly, little boy?

Did your barber fill your heart with dread?

You think your feet won’t trip over those locks of yours,

Do you think you can escape my grip?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“Come, come, little boy, come listen to my tale,

You hear my voice calling, do you not?

Pounding like the thunder on an oval racetrack,

Or the roar of victory over roadkill done shot.”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet;

You do not exist.

.

“A wizard who lives in a trailer park, little boy,

That wizard gave me my super power today.

With a flick of your barber’s muddled brain,

Your history will now wash, rinse, and repeat.”

.

Go away, you wretched mullet;

You will not exist.

.

“Now, now, little boy, can you hear the pounding of your fearing heart?

I can hear it stammering deep within you,

Deep inside your chest, stammering,
Like poisoned lice wanting to escape.”

.

Go away, vile mullet;

You shall not exist.

.

“Run, run, little boy,

Feel my touch on the back of your neck.”

.

Get behind me, disgusting mullet—

.

“I am behind you, little boy!”

.

I refuse to see you, evil mullet;

You shall no longer exist!

.

“Who do you think you’re fighting, little boy?

Jheri curl? The Kid N’ Play flat top?

I will not die to your shears, little boy,

One roach yields a thousand.”

.

Be gone, stinking mullet;

Back to the trailer from where you came!

.

“Why are falling to your knees, little boy?

Can’t you take a hairy joke?

Are the people that laugh around you

Filled with a sense of humor beyond your scope?”

.

I’m not listening to you, mullet!

You do not exist!

.

“Why do you scream at me, little boy?

Have you gotten rid of me yet?”

.

So help me, mullet, I’ll cut you!

I’ll cut you where you grow!

.

“Such violence, little boy.

Did your stylist teach you how to scream?”

.

I’ll suck you up in a Flowbee, mullet!

Into a void, you go!

.

“Little boy, little boy, you think you’re a man?

Little boy, little girl, cut me if you can!”

.

You’ll lie scattered on the floor, greasy mullet!

Under foot you’ll be tramped!

.

“I’ll wrap around your neck, little scamp!

I’ll make sure you never forget!

Your first mullet may have gone down the gutter,

But your second will permeate your head.”

.

Not if I shave you, outdated mullet.

Eat DHT for breakfast.

.

“You would not dare, little boy.

No man would choose such fate!”

.

You do not rule me, stinking mullet!

My fate is what I make!

.

“You would waste me, little boy?

A part of you as you’re part of me?

Would you waste me, little boy?

The way your barber wasted your dignity?”

.

I will not listen to you, mullet;

You are not of me!

.

“I am your mullet, little boy,

I am your second mullet, come to stay.”

.

You are an abomination, mutant hairdo,

A stain on history’s stylistic fame.

.

“I am your mullet, little boy!

I am your second mullet, come to stay!”

.

I do not want you, horrible mutant!

Rid me of your tacky mane!

.

“I am your mullet, little boy!

Your Uncle Mullet, come to stay.”

.

I choose baldness over mullet,

You evil, wretched, carpet brain—

.

“You’ll have both, little boy,

Both will be your fate.

Your first bald mullet,

Is what you’ll get today.”

.

Lightning’s about to strike, lying mullet,

Your strands will be fried in place.

I will not bow to you, sick mullet,

I’ll burn you where you stay.

.

“We could dance this dance all day, little boy,

Stuff the night as you wish.

But tomorrow’s a brand new day, I’ll say,

And you’ll think it’s a nice day to start again.”

.

–Jeremy Bursey

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