Rhodopsera
“So, Kamala.” Donald Trump’s trumpeted lips said her name like they had so many times before. “I won. I’m the best President – you know it, I know it, everybody knows it – so I won.”
He pinched his fingers in his way, and Kamala leaned back. She felt like he’d spat on her a little just now, but wasn’t sure enough to accuse him of it. And even if she had said something, he would have deflected it. Said she was just sweating, because he was so imposing, or something. “You did win, Donald. I don’t think you’re the best president, but you won.”
“Don’t try to deny it, Kama-blah, I’m the best president.” He reached forward and grabbed her by the chin, with those wide, short fingers. She didn’t pull away. “I’m the best president, and I’m a great businessman – I make the best deals – I made a deal with you, and it has paid off big-time.”
Yep. That deal. She wouldn’t have done it if her hand hadn’t been forced. It was a big secret – something that could have ruined her career, let alone this election campaign – and Trump knew. But he had offered to keep it hush-hush on pretty generous terms, terms that would have let her off the hook completely if she’d won. And then she hadn’t won.
Had he cheated? It didn’t matter now. He took her by the shoulders and nudged her into a swivel chair, and she heard the sound of scissors behind her. “You’re gonna look great, trust me. Everyone’s gonna look at Kamala and go, look at her, she knows who the best leader for the country is, she’s got her head on her shoulders now.” He grabbed a hank of her hair.
*Shhhk.* Her head felt a bit lighter, and he shook off his hand. Brown hair with caramel highlights fluttered to the floor. “They’re gonna say, she’s on the right track, trying to be like The Don. She’s trying to be like the next president of America, she’ll go far.” Another handful, another cut. She reached up to feel it – it was short. Not as short as she had been worrying about, but this wasn’t the worst part of the process.
His fingers burrowed themselves into the hair on the side of her head, then cut, and trimmed, and she could feel it taking shape. And then he grabbed the top and started cutting it all the way down – God, it was so short, honestly, it was still bad even if it wasn’t the worst that it could be.
She felt a razor on the top of her head, and tried not to think about anything.
He stopped. “You know, I love blondes.” He reached behind for a moment, and Kamala felt something cold on the top of her head. “Real red-blooded American girls, like my daughter, like Ivanka. She’s a real smoke-show. You’re all dried up, you’re a crazy cat lady, but you’ll look better.” It spread across her scalp, all the way down to her sideburns, down the back of her neck.
Honestly, how had she gotten into this? Her scalp was starting to burn. Joe had fucked up the debate, and she wasn’t confident in her charisma, but she was the only choice if the party wanted to keep any of the goodwill towards him, so she’d tried her best. She didn’t regret it overall, but she was less sure of it now.
Then Donald pushed her head forward into a basin and blasted her head with water, and she gasped. His stubby hands rooted around in her hair, rubbing the sore skin of her head, getting all the bleach out – and then she was being pulled up, blasted with a blow-dryer, her hair tugged with a comb.
“Look at you. So much better, believe me,” came a voice from behind her, and he spun her around, and she heard a camera flash. He turned his phone around to show her.
“Oh, my god.” Somehow, he’d managed it. Her head was covered in thin, wispy blonde strands of hair. They came down the sides and back, and on top, she had a combover, and it was struggling to stay intact, just like his. Except she didn’t know how to style it, so she’d either have to learn to do her hair just like him, or walk around with nothing on top.
“So much better than what you had before. You’re either Black or Indian, pick one – but as long as you have that bombshell blonde hair, you’re just American. A real American.”
