I was a year and a half old when I got my first hair cut and destiny started to grow—right out the back of my head.
Most toddlers are figuring out how to string words together or walk without tipping over like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. Not me. I had bigger plans. I was busy growing a mullet.
At first, it was just a tuft—an innocent little curl that refused to be tamed. But as I grew, so did it. Most kids got haircuts. Mine just got longer… in the back. Up front? Business. Flat top so sharp it could slice air. But behind? Pure, curly chaos. A waterfall of wildness. A statement of intent.
By the time I could walk, I was already turning heads at playgrounds and grocery stores. Grown adults would whisper, “Is that… a toddler mullet?” Yes. Yes it is.
As I got older, I climbed onto a dirtbike, and that’s when it all clicked. The way my mullet caught the wind as I ripped through track—flapping like a battle flag out the back of my helmet—that’s when I knew. This wasn’t just a haircut. It was my trademark. My legacy.
Now? I don’t even remember life without it. It’s curly. It’s a flat top. It flows like a river of rebellion out the back of my helmet. And everywhere I go, it says the same thing:
This guy means business up front… and absolute chaos in the back.