"#1 on the side and don't touch the back 
#6 on the top and don't cut it wack, Jack" 
[Beastie Boys, "Mullet Head"]

The mullet. Vilified and revered the world over for its magnetic ability to attract only the most tragically fashion-clueless personalities. Here’s looking at you, entire Saved by the Bell cast. ‘It was the eighties,’ most definitely won’t hold water when you plead for forgiveness. No, the mullet is alive and well in continental Europe. And perhaps we should welcome it, in all its greasy horror.

The careless whisper that the mullet died a gruesome and arguably long-overdue death when Kevin Keegan, Wham!  and Andre Agassi rendez-vous-ed in a forward-thinking German barbershop in the mid-90s is sadly an urban legend. Gone is the obvious mullet of yesteryear; we have entered a new age of modern, subtle mullet-o-philia – you may not have discerned them yet, but look closely and you will notice the cleverly-disguised child mullet, female mullet and barely-there brushing-the-nape-of-the-neck mullet, on a European metro near you.

But why have the British not embraced this legendary hairstyle, instead insisting on casting a none-too-favourable eye over its wonky magnificence? Primarily because it is a hideous offence to visual culture, but perhaps also because of that mythical aura known as the British reserve. Put simply, as I hinted at last week, we like to blend into the background, and style statements which offer a departure from the norm, mullet-related or otherwise, are often received with a sartorial raise of the eyebrow and a comment on how ‘unique’ the defector in question looks.

The British can demonstrate an alarming insularity when it comes to social relations, of which this is one example. Similarly, last weekend I decided to take advantage of the long weekends my year abroad offers and travel to Marrakech. Times like these push any thoughts of pining for my beloved Cambridge firmly out of my head when I realise that should I have pursued a degree in another arts discipline, I would now no doubt be wading through intense amounts of dissertation research and infernal supervision prep. A sobering thought, and one which further highlights the alternative of social integration in a foreign country as rather agreeable.

To this end, you would think that naturally I would be willing to accept any new friends offering me help in a foreign country. Not quite so. Sadly, when being approached by several young Moroccans who turned out to be genuinely nice people, I clammed up and was a little frosty in my reception. My mind kept turning over the question of what they exactly wanted from me, and what they were going to gain from forging an amicable relationship which would maybe last only forty-eight hours at best. Narrow-minded? Probably. Shrewd, given the circumstances? Again, probably. Let the jury decide.

 It shames me that I felt a certain unease, but without placing all the blame at society’s door, this attitude does smack of a more general, national reticence to engage in dialogue with our neighbours, in whatever way that connection might manifest itself. We are social caterpillars, with all the good intentions of learning languages, travelling to far-flung tribal outlands and reaching beyond the bubble, but without the determination to actually recognise the image of ourselves in another. Refer yourselves to the Moroccan obsession with tea-drinking. Know of another nation that could maybe get along with that idea? Perhaps.  This is why the Department for Education made the right decision earlier this year not to axe the British Council language assistants scheme, in which I am currently taking part, in order that future caterpillars might blossom into the proverbial butterflies. Here in Spain, I enjoy a successful flatshare with six other people of different nationalities, and my stuttering vocabulary is received with encouraging smiles and helpful adjustments of faltering grammar. This, in counterpoint to the grunt of sarcasm I received at Stansted Airport when I returned home for Christmas and I tried to purchase tickets to a destination other than London.

Now, if you believe I’ll be reaching for the scissors and cutting myself a mullet worthy of Patrick Swayze, then you must be as dazed and confused as gay icon Ricky Martin suffering through four choruses of She Bangs. Nor am I suggesting that we should accept every aspect of different cultures unquestioningly. No, rather I am suggesting relaxation, openness and a renewed will to expand our horizons to see past week eight. Tolerating mullets is a baby step along this road.