I have lived here three years. I no longer wake up for my car alarm, fire and police sirens, or the domestic disputes of my neighbors. The faucet in the kitchen drips, that keeps me up all night.
The nadir of my insomnia seems to be agreeing to things, perhaps in an effort to trade ridiculous favors for sleep. Most recently, I agreed, after negotiation, that I would get hair extensions that appear to be a mullet if my sister wins the lottery in exchange for half of the winnings. She wanted me to grow the mullet, but I think it would be funnier if I got a weave and I cannot imagine any circumstances where I would actually expend the effort to grow my hair long enough to have it then shaped into a mullet, however if I get the job in Kentucky but not the job in Texas I may grow a mullet and call it ‘being incognito.’ I could never grow a mullet in Stepford, there is a city ordinance against them and my barber cuts your mullet if you want her to or not, my hair looks terrible but I go to her because I support her humanitarian efforts.
More alarming than my fixation on mullets is that people still grow them. Mullet hunting is what got my father, sister and I through our latest trip antiquing with mom when my parents came to visit. My sister called it the highlight of our vacation – we caught a mullet that was longer than she is tall. Someone spent her entire adult life cultivating a tacky hairstyle.
When I was in college I had a boss who had a mullet almost like that, but she cut it off and gave it to locks of love. I am actually annoyed that I was not written up for asking if the hair was made into a mullet wig. I thought it was a reasonable question and completely out of line. It is probably metaphysically impossible for that hair not to reform into a mullet. No matter what you did to that hair, it would reform into a mullet and I imagine that it is even now working its way back to her to reattach itself to her head.
I also like to imagine that someone built an altar out of stone and cut the mullet off with a bronze knife not unlike how Abraham was supposed to sacrifice Isaac in the Old Testament. In my imagination someone with nice hair was about to have it shorn off when the hairdresser heard Wendy’s screams of anguish having gotten caught in a bramble, sparing the person with beautiful hair and at the same time bestowing a wig upon some unfortunate child.
Other things I have agreed to include going rafting down the Colorado River and cliff diving in Mexico. Peter pointed out that I am impervious to peer pressure, I do nothing I would not already do on my own: I just look for backup from Jeremy and do what he does – because two boys are dumber than one – even at this late age. We will be in our eighties rolling around in wheelchairs finding something dangerous to do. We will live that long: we are too stupid to die.
I just hope that when I do jump off that cliff, two summers from now, my hair extended mullet is not caught in a branch, causing me to slam into the rocks and not the water.
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