What on earth was Donald Trump trying to achieve by forcing the first black President to prove his American birthright?
Other than to say his attack was a thinly-veiled racist slur, I couldn’t tell you a deal about it. Because all my attention had transplanted itself atop Donald’s big, fat head. And another thinly-veiled attempt from Trump.
What IS that thing masquerading as hair?
If it’s real, where does it start and where does it finish?
Or is no thread of it actually attached to his scalp? Is it actually a bizarre little head duvet the billionaire, in an attempt to disguise the fact that the top of Trump Tower now looks like a helicopter-landing pad, has had hand-spun from threads of pure gold, or hairs plucked from the pates of impoverished Norwegian children?
Trump’s hairdo has been thrust into the global media spotlight by his baiting of Obama, but it has long been the subject of speculation in New York. Highly observant movers and shakers in the Big Apple actually think they’ve cracked the conundrum of the-man-who-would-be-president’s not so crowning glory...
Cross-thatching. A complicated double comb-over, something way beyond my old dad’s capabilities with plastic head-scratcher and a can of Silvikrin.
It appears his stylist must work left to right across Trump’s pate, then take a lengthy section from back to front.
All those specially cultivated long bits... what must he look like when he wakes up in the morning?
I was going to say how come a man with so much money could have such bad taste. But then I remembered Ivana and Marla Maples. He’s always had a thing for a wispily-thin bit of fake blonde.