I’m Going to Adopt Donald Trump’s Hair.
I’m going to fly to New York and go to the platinum fortress where the hair resides. I’ll pass through a gilded archway crowned with the massive neon letters T, R, U, M, and P, glowing Republican Red, Manly White, and Big Hand Blue, and find the hair resting in a small basket with an adorable little bow.
The hair will jump into my lap and paw at my face, wagging his little comb-over. I’ll buckle a collar onto him, snap on a leash, and we’ll leave the dreary fortress forever as we head to the park. We’ll romp and have fun until, without provocation, Donald Trump’s hair will attack a chihuahua, and I’ll have to drag him away, loudly explaining that he’s normally great with Hispanics.
I’ll take Donald Trump’s hair home, and we’ll be the best of friends. He’ll curl in my lap while we binge watch “Girls,” nudging me awake when I doze off during the good parts. I’ll post selfies on Instagram of the hair and I playing tug of war and fetch. I’ll dress him up in a little turkey costume for Thanksgiving, then listen patiently while Donald Trump’s hair demands a temporary ban on our dinner guests until we can complete background checks. Every day will be an adventure.
Still, adopting Trump’s hair will mean hard work, and I’ll need to teach him proper manners. There will be accidents – little puddles of Big Sexy Hair Volumizing Hairspray on my apartment’s floor – and I’ll roll my eyes as the hair blames them on the chihuahua from the park. Trump’s hair will refuse to listen to my wife, condescendingly snorting when she tells him to stay off the furniture, or to stop encouraging Russia to hack our neighbor’s cat. Trump’s hair will convince me to buy him expensive chew toys on credit, then declare bankruptcy. You better know what you’re getting into when you give Donald Trump’s hair a forever home. It’s a serious thing.
But I know it will all be worth it; there will be so many moments that will enrich both our lives. That’s the gift of owning a pet. You get a companion. A friend. A cuddly little xenophobe to take on walks and cover with a novelty trucker hat when it’s windy. And I know our personalities are compatible: just last week I solved a problem at work by claiming the media was conspiring with Susan in HR to make me look bad.
It’s going to be life changing. I mean, how many of your pets ever owned their own airline?
Tom Connor’s humor and nonfiction have appeared in Ars Technica, Neutrons Protons, Specter Magazine, and Where Y’at, among other places. He lives in San Francisco, and his dog wants to be friends with your dog. You can find Tom on Twitter (@_TC_) or at one of his live readings around the Bay Area.
–Art by Felix Lu
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