True story below, but I wrote it in the third person so it would have universal appeal. I hope you can relate! The picture is the flattened mohawk, circa 2014, the Seahawks won :)
When Your Lover Sports a Mullet
Perhaps he had back surgery prior
and wasn’t able to go to work,
was primarily wearing black long johns.
He cut the front of his hair
one bored afternoon between pain killers.
It was February and all winter you wore sweaters
the texture and color of dryer lint.
In vain, he asked after your sunnier palette.
And declined when you offered to trim where he couldn’t reach.
Feeling a little better, he explored
the far reaches of his closet
and attended a party wearing
an acid wash jean jacket with faux sheepskin lining,
the mullet went nicely.
You stopped wearing the dresses he loves,
black corduroys became a wardrobe staple.
You missed the back of his neck,
he craved your knees.
There was something deeper going on
than clothing and hairstyles.
You watched each other tenderly.
He started describing you as gray-ceful.
You imagined it was the eighties
and he was your high school boyfriend.
It might not seem like much
you let your loved one
wear cowboy boots or
have a baseball hat collection
that you didn’t look askance when he crafted
a mohawk to lead his team
to victory in the Superbowl.
Perhaps it is small consolation he indulged,
your phase of turquoise rings,
tolerates the menagerie of throw pillows,
the victorian nightgown you put on for cuddling.
But sometimes, more often, it is everything.