I wasn't very happy with my supershort haircut this summer, but I've had worse.
Here I am, 25 years old, at Kells, Ireland, with the worst haircut of my life. Yes, a mullet. I seem to recall it was acceptable at the time, but now I wince looking at photos from the month I spent biking around Ireland with this hideous cut. Not that the rest of me was very fashionable either * ; but then, neither was anyone else I saw in Ireland in 1986. This horse was about the norm.
I have other photos of bad haircuts from the past around. I could post a series.
Dorkiness aside, I have always loved this photo, taken by bink. I'm striding along with one pants' leg tucked into my sock because I was going to get on my bike to continue along the narrow, windy, hilly road--the only kind there was. What a misguided trip that was, and how very fond it makes me of myself to remember how I insisted on making it.
* That sweater! I'd brought it because I thought it would keep me warm, not realizing that it would stay damp for a month; this was pre-Gortex and fleece. The wise Irish wore polyester, which dries fast--those thick wool Irish sweaters are for tourists.