Cut Your Hair

Right before I left for London about a year ago, my stylist gave me an Asian mullet.

I drank afternoon tea at Harrod’s with this mullet. I interviewed musicians and a British actress with it. The mullet kept my hair safely away from my hot noodle soup whilst I hung my head forlornly, introducing myself to a West End theater director near Leicester Square. I relished a late-night chow down on Dean Street with Kiwi and BBC comedians—my shaggy mullet fluidly following fits of laughter.

I vowed to never get a mullet again.

This past weekend I made the trip out to Fort Greene to get a haircut. It is not a mullet. It’s not even that short. But I decided to experiment with the idea of short hair, as summer and global warming take hold (click any photo to enlarge).

I just need to don one of my ties and I could be a boy.