Tuesday, March 16, 2004

The Hair

Some of you are wondering why I've yet to weigh in on one of the most pressing issues of our time, i.e., Donald Trump's Earth-shattering hair, as featured on The Apprentice.

For those of you not committed to hurling your time head-long into the gaping suckhole that is reality television, I should inform you that The Hair is, to use a technical beautician term, godawful. It is hypnotic. It commands the screen; it demands epic poetry and possibly its own Broadway musical. Not quite orange, not quite yellow, and yet, somehow, striped. It's screw-you hair. "Screw you," says Donald Trump's hair, "for I am rich enough to be quite this horrifying and still find my way onto prime time television."

For all this, I really can't bring myself to write about it, for once I beheld The Hair, I knew I was, as a humor writer, utterly humbled. The Hair speaks for itself; nothing I can say will add to its exclusive ability to mystify and terrorize. It's like trying to photograph the Grand Canyon: You can set up the panoramic lens, hunker down for hours waiting for just the right light, and throw all your professional abilities to capturing the thing properly, but you will never, ever do it justice.

And a couple of you, wondering, as well you should, how this all might lead back to Gary Stevens, have asked if Trump is involved in horseracing. The surprising answer is: No. El Trump, to my knowledge, does not own any racehorses. Which is just as well. I do not care to imagine a twenty-horse Kentucky Derby field entirely named "Trump."

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