I Grew Up With A Mullet, And I Miss It

A young boy holding up a fist

The mullet was special.

At the age of 8, I was building 3-car garages with my old man, mullet flapping in the summer breeze. After a long hard day laying down shingles, I’d jump on my Mongoose BMX bike, and pick up the buddies on the pegs.

We’d take a short bike ride to McDonald’s, then wreak havoc in Walmart, getting kicked out for playing sports in the aisles and climbing the shelves.

A kitchen with a sink and a toaster oven

It was what life was all about.

Sometimes you would just throw eggs at a house, because that’s what a mullet wearing kid from Indiana did. You were a man. You fixed things at a young age, you got extra mayo on your Whopper.

The mullet meant business, but also fun. It was like yeah, ill change your oil, then take you to Dairy Queen.

The mullet meant you had all the newest Power Rangers toys, watched HBO in first grade, and ate mac ‘n cheese every day for lunch.

It meant life had no worries, no bills, no fucks to give.

I miss my mullet, but I will live as if one is flapping in the breeze behind me.

A beer bottle on a dock



A beer bottle on a dock