A Little Bit of Mullet-tude Goes a Long Way

Of all the experiences and memories that routinely pop into my consciousness from the surreal three years of life in Kumamoto-ken from 2001 to 2004 on the JET Programme, one story needs to be told for the enjoyment and education for all. This story is one person’s coming of age, in a way, along with a community’s enlightenment, and should be passed down for generations to come.

If you have lived in Japan for any amount of time, you quickly learn that a part of Japanese culture is to complement at all costs. An insult or question about anything is scarcely heard, especially when it comes to peculiar habits of foreigners. One example is the propensity to complement foreigners on the use of chopsticks, regardless of the length of time that person spent using and practicing chopsticks. If you have been here 20 years, you will still get the admiring words of “Ohashi, jozu (Wow, you’re great at chopsticks)!”

When I came to Kumamoto in August of 2001, I had bleached my brown hair into an obnoxious, whitish blonde color, and compounded that mess by not only letting it grow for the next 18 months, but continuing the practice of bleaching it every few months. One of my motivations with this eyesore was to push the envelope, as it were. I knew my hair was horrible, my friends openly mocked and laughed at it, and my Mom routinely emailed begging me to cut it.

However, even at the peak of my follicular chaos, Japanese people routinely complemented me. I insisted on finding out just how ridiculous something had to become in order for sanity to enter the conversation, manners and custom to be set aside, and reality restored. What would prompt a Japanese person to say, “Why don’t you cut that repugnant beehive off your head?”

If you happen to be the only poor soul in the world unfortunate enough to have never discovered the joy of mullets, a mullet is essentially a haircut that evolved sometime during the ‘80s presumably, first among soccer players possibly in England, and then spread across the world like the rage virus in “28 Days Later.” Appearing somewhat like a dead animal, the main characteristics of a mullet are short hair on the top and sides of one’s head, with unrelated long hair originating in the back. Mullets have been modeled by such luminaries as American country music star Billy Ray Cyrus, English football emperor David Beckham, and various other celebrities over the years. Hilarious names and descriptions have popped up, like the Neck-warmer, the Business-Casual, the Texas Two-step, the Kentucky Waterfall, and many more. (For illustrations and general knowledge in mulletude, log on to www.mulletsgalore.com)

In New Zealand for Christmas vacation in 2002, a year and a half after my last haircut, I went into a beachside hair salon and came out with corn rows. With enough hair, a skilled artist can braid hair directly to the scalp in neat rows that look like orderly fields of cornstalks.

That style itself was a hit with my students and friends in Japan, but “unbraiding” them was another matter. My hair ended up a tangled mess, but instead of shaving it directly, I had my friend cut off the difficult braids-beyond-hope, and was left with a mullet. Yet, this was not your garden variety mullet. Most of the bleached hair had been cut off, except for the longer hair on the back of my head. I had a two-tone mullet.

From the front, my natural brown hair resembled any conventional haircut of a normal guy, but from the side or back view, an eye-catching shock of bleached hair flowed down my head like a waterfall in the woods of Aso (the beautiful countryside of Kumamoto famous for the active volcano among other things). Put simply, the business was brown, the party was blonde! My mullet was absolutely hideous, and I decided that I had a duty to share it with the rest of Kumamoto City, if not the world. This new haircut would be the ultimate test in the question of what would it take for Japanese people to not complement you.

Unbelievably, I walked into school that week, and was greeted with the familiar salutes of “Kakoii, Joe-sensei! (Mr. Joe, you’re so handsome!)” I was stunned, and admittedly, somewhat disappointed. Not one teacher or student commented on the abomination that was my mullet, and furthermore, it was a different haircut from the previous week, so of course they called it handsome and cool! Doggedly determined to get the most mileage out of my mullet, I went everywhere trying to be mocked.

I walked the Shimotori and Kamitori, which are the covered mall-like downtown walkways. I worked the door at Sharp’s, the late great gathering spot for gaijin. I gave a self-introduction to an elementary school class and even took the time to teach them the concept of mullet. “Short-long, please repeat, everyone. Short. Long.” “Okay, everyone say, ‘Joe’s hair is mullet.” Although it came out “Ma-retto” in Katakana-ized Japanese, the effect was hilarious.

I am delighted to report that the unthinkable mercifully happened. My mullet lived and breathed for nine glorious days in Kumamoto City, was documented on video, film, and in print. On that ninth day, one of my darling junior high school third-year students named Miwa approached me. I assumed she had drawn the short straw in the discussion of which person should go up to the American English teacher and inform him that his hair should be set out with the other bags of trash on Monday or Thursday, depending on your neighborhood. Miwa’s words were unforgettably sweet, and though slightly uncertain, her point was unmistakable.

“Joe-sensei,” Miwa began, motioning me toward her in the teacher’s room, and saying each word as a question, “Now?. . .you are?. . .nice guy. But?. . .if? . . .you? (putting her hands behind her head and making some kind of caressing motion). . .cut? VERY NICE GUY.” She ended with a big smile, pleased she had communicated her point and I was not too upset.

That was it. The mullet had run its course. A 15-year old Japanese girl had not told me that my hair was visually painful to look at, but I understood. I had attained my goal and that was pushing the envelope to see when it would burst: about nine days, as it turns out. Soon after that conversation, I cut everything off for a fresh start and a new outlook.

So ends the tale of my mullet. If you get the chance to sport one in your life, whether for a half hour or two weeks, I highly recommend it. In lieu of that experience, however, please take my words, and these pictures, and pass them on to your friends, family, kids, and the next generation as well. Mullets may well be an endangered species, but we must all do our part to ensure that the memory, if not the actual creature itself, lives on from time to time.