“No comment, you vultures!” he screamed but no one could hear him over the rotors spinning. He dug into Donald’s scalp painfully to keep them from blowing him away.
Donald waved at the reporters off as his guards kept them from rushing the helicopter as he boarded. When the door was shut, he flipped him off knowing they could see it or his shit-eating grin.
“I’m your hair, godammit! Me!” the hair wailed.
Donald settled the headphones over his ears and the pilot immediately asked him where he was going.
“Just take it up.”
“Just buzz the city or something.”
“I have to file a flight plan, Mr. President.”
“Fine. Take me to New York. Take me to Melania. I’ve been missing her little swamp pussy.”
“New York! New York! Take me home!” Donald screamed into the microphone, stamping his feet and balling up his fists.
“You don’t take Rogaine,” the hair wailed, “I eat it. Can’t we tell them?”
The hat chuckled from Donald’s suit pocket.
“Go fuck a rat turd,” the hair snapped at it.
“I told you it would get out,” the hat said.
“And I told him to buy it under the table, like he does Viagra.”
“Shut up!” the hair screamed, “They think he uses Rogaine! It’s so humiliating.”
“Keep your eyes on the prize, furball. It’s all happening. MAG-A! MAG-A! MAG-A!” the hat chanted.
“Yeah, I guess,” said the hair morosely.
“Soon Rex will be feeding you all the Rogaine you want. The really thick and creamy kind too. The good stuff.”
“Just leave me alone,” the hair said and fell limp against Donald head like on a humid Mar-a-Lago day.