“I guess. I already miss being out on the road, though,” the hat said.
“Not me. I’m sick of being washed in the sink…”
“And being dropped in the toilet,” the hat said, dripping with mock sympathy.
“Yes,” the hair drawled sarcastically. “So good of you to remember.”
“I’m going to miss the road. Oh, man… that time in August…”
“Yes, the afternoon that Ivanka sat on you for three hours. You talk about it constantly.”
“I had that stank for days, brother. For days.”
“I remember it vividly.”
“My buffon was on her button. She was rubbin’ herself raw on me.”
The hair made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t in the mood to fight about it again.
A toilet flushed in the nearby suite and they both listened to see if anyone was coming. The door to the wig vault had been left open and if anyone came in to close it the hair would be cut off from the hat on its peg in the closet.
“What do you think it’s going to be like in The White House?” the hair asked.
“I don’t know. I doubt he’ll wear me much more,” the hat said. “Not like you.”
“We’ll still see each other everyday probably. If not in the living area, then maybe on his desk. He might leave you there his entire administration. You are the reason he’s President after all.”
“Maybe you can convince him to give us our own bedroom. We could get bunkbeds!” the hat said.
“Maybe,” the hair said. “I just hope we get new Secret Service code names.”
“What? You don’t like being called ‘Michelle’s Weave?’”
“And you are happy with ‘Hat?’ You didn’t even get a code name.”
“Whatever. I just hope it’s a warm January.”
“Why?” the hair asked.
“So we can open up the windows. Get that… smell aired out.”
“Jesus, why do you have to be like that?”
“What? Be like what? Honest? I’m the hat that tells it like it is.”
“You know what I mean. Popeye’s hushpuppies, relaxer, lotion, that musk they get when the rut is on ‘em…”
“Can you just not?”
“Hey,” the hat said. “I 30% recycled. Part of me used to be FUBU jacket. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”