My mullet has grown to monster proportions. It’s creeping down towards the bottom of my neck, but is still at least an inch away from tidy ponytail length. It’s precisely long enough to stimulate the white trash gland that makes one crave Miller lite, bags of ketchup chips, and Jenny Jones.
This must not be allowed to go on.
I am making an emergency stop at the salon to get a trim on my lunchhour, before I start chewing tobacco pouches and scattering car parts around my cubicle.