Growing up in a small town and in a family that normalized putting dead animals in the garage freezer, pending future burial, these are stories of childhood shenanigans, humility, resiliency, growth, and really terrible haircuts.
When I was in 4th grade, I was taller than every single person in my grade, had skinny legs that came up to my armpits, giant glasses, and less than desirable teeth. I made up for it by clowning around and making people laugh (while being sent to the principal's office for my relentless jokester behavior).
I regularly wore my "I ❤️ Michael Jackson" sun visor that my mom bought me in Hawaii, and bragged to all of my friends that one day, I'd be Mrs. Jackson. Of course that dream is now dashed. I remember daily being sent to the corner by my teacher, Mr. Moyer. You read that correctly...the corner....like what my parents did to me when I was three. I remember one day, there were more kids in corners than there were in the desks.
Mr. Moyer was that haunted house that every small town has just rotting away at the end of some cul-de-sac. Kids throw rocks through the windows and run away laughing in fear, expecting the soul of the old house to swallow them whole. Except instead of old moss hanging from the fascia, he had a coffee-stained mustache hanging over his mouth.
I had heard so many horrific rumors about him that when I found out he was to be my teacher, I threw myself on the ground like someone just killed my puppy. Mr. Moyer was ex-military and the rules for his classroom were tighter than Singapore...no gum chewing, no sharpening your pencil out of turn, no laughing, no whining, and certainly no eye rolling. If he ever needed to have a chat with you privately at his desk, he'd yell "Pierce! Front and center!". The sheer projection of his voice would make you either fall out of your seat, or wet your pants...both consequently weren't allowed, and you'd end up back in the corner with wet pants and a bruised ego.
Trying to shove some semblance of joy into my life, I begged my mom for a bob haircut so I could try to "fit in" with my peers. My mom had other ideas. In fact, she fancied herself a bit of a hairdresser because she cut hair for her friends in the 1960's...back when hair pieces were the thing. I suppose there was comfort in knowing that you could botch any haircut if there was a hair piece to cover it up during the grow out period.
The main issue is that my mom was obsessed with my long golden locks. She imagined whacking my hair off would be like cutting off her own hand. So a compromise was made, and by "compromise", I mean she was in full control. The result was a permed mullet. The best part is she kept the back of my hair SUPER long, but permed the last six inches. Why? We may never know, but it's that detail that makes this hairstyle go down in history as the ultimate joke for my friends. Even though this took place in the 80's, the time of "anything goes", what I can tell you is I was the only person in my entire school with this unique style. So, my desires to fit in resulted in me standing out even more. This abomination happened the weekend before Picture Day, naturally, and to pour salt in the wound and then grind it in with a combat boot, I wore a dress with a bow tie as if to say "I give up".
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You may be wondering, "How does one grow out a permed mullet gracefully?". You don't. It just happens slowly and painfully. Mine took 4 years, and at that point, the bangs were now sweeping across my face in a very Robert Smith kind of way, but imagine with braces, glasses, and an oversized Coca-Cola shirt. Now that my bangs were officially down to my chin, I think my mom finally recognized the ridiculousness of the situation. The only answer was to get the bob hairstyle. While my mom sobbed, I couldn't stop thinking about all of the new opportunities this haircut was going to open up for me. Student Body President? Debate Champion? Soccer Superstar? The trained professional with the scissors rolled her eyes at the shit show that was unfolding before her. We took the severed braid home with the intension of sending it to Locks of Love...though I can't say it ever made it there. I have a feeling it's wrapped in archival paper and tucked away in a Memory Box under my mom's bed. And THIS is why anytime my daughter asks to cut her hair or throw in some blue, I don't even flinch. It's your hair, baby girl, unless you want a permed mullet...and then it's my hair.
