close

2024 Election

As Trump Sees His Election Win Chances Diminish, All He Can Seem to Think About Is His Hair

Nice to see he's finishing strong.

By

In yet another “this can’t possibly be real” moment, Donald Trump had another massive spaz attack about his appearance at a rally in Virginia yesterday. I would understand if this decision came down to who has the better hairdo between him and Kamala Harris.

But let’s be real — even if the election that determined whether or not America is seen as having given up 250 years of democracy for fascism DID come down to the silky blowout or the permanent pompadour, he’d better pray he gets a few points for the audacity to run in the first place.

There he is, in front of the town of Salem and Glenn Youngkin, the governor of the state, and he launches into another tirade about his insufferable obsession with his hair.

“Oh sh*t. Look, I’m looking at the back of my head. What the hell. I don’t like, I look over at Youngkin, and now I look up there, I see, I’m having a bad hair day. This is not good. I have to have a bad hair day in front of Virginia? That’s not good.”

Honestly, I’m not sure why he keeps drawing attention to his hair. I mean, it’s been a running joke since long before he ever ran for president, and I mean even the first time he ran back in 2000 on the Reform Party ticket. I think he might have actually been laughed off the stage in that election because he was such a joke, with late-night hosts pulling on his lemon cotton candy coif.

And I’m going to make a confession here. I actually love writing the articles about his hair hysteria every time this felony factory freaks out. Part of it is sadism against the kind of person who is so vain that they think a hairstyle matters when there is so much else to hate them for.

But the other part is that I personally have unquestionably good hair.

Now, good hair comes from a lot of factors. Baldness, for example, is inherited from the maternal grandfather. My Grampy died at age 96  with a full-on, white, Bob’s Big Boy wave of hair, so I’m good there. I don’t wear tight-fitting hats (I absolutely do wear hats; thanks for bringing those back, hipsters!) because I choose ones that are the exact size of my head. Boom, no receding hairline.

The biggest thing for me, though, is that my significant other, as those of you who read my articles regularly already know, is a hairdresser.

Imagine my joy at getting to write sarcastic articles about the hil-HAIR-ity of Donald Trump’s noggin when I can give my girl a smooch in return for a perfectly textured, backcombed undercut with silver highlights that makes other MEN stop and comment when I go out for groceries.

I’m not vain: I just totally told you my hair comes from my grandpa and my girlfriend. I’m only just getting down the styling routine that makes this cut look best the day AFTER she cuts it, when I have to do it myself. As a side note, don’t you hate that? Hair’s perfect when you leave a salon or barber, and then you have to pretend like you know what they did to balance it perfectly on your weird-ass skull?

My point is, this article is the first time I’ve talked about my own hair in I’m not sure HOW long, and my hair is outstanding. This dude can’t shut up about it, and it looks like rodents have rented the penthouse on his cranium.

What is wrong with this man? The election is on Tuesday, you idiot. Talk about the economy. Talk about freedom of speech. Hell, talk about Hunter Biden’s laptop again if you want. SHUT UP about your hair already.

Some people on the internet saw fit to criticize Trump with reminders of past transgressions with tresses:

Mostly, however, people just pointed out the obvious. The man is officially around the bend at this point.

It’s gotten weird and it can only get weirder.

Andrew Simpson
meet the author

Andrew is a dark blue speck in deep red Central Washington, writing with the conviction of 18 years at the keyboard and too much politics to even stand. When not furiously stabbing the keys on breaking news stories, he writes poetry, prose, essays, haiku, lectures, stories for grief therapy, wedding ceremonies, detailed instructions on making doughnuts from canned biscuit dough (more sugar than cinnamon — duh), and equations to determine the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow. A girlfriend, a dog, two cats, and two birds round out the equation, and in his spare time, Drewbear likes to imagine what it must be like to have spare time.

Comments

Comments are currently closed.

Recent Stories

Trending Stories