Ashley Davies on how the – fictional – hairdresser of the Republican candidate eases his mood swings
THE other day I was gluing down Mr Trump’s hair (he likes me to call it his “golden fleece”) and he was leafing through those celebrity magazines he loves, pointing out with those adorable fat fingers of his who he’d “date”, who he’d already “dated” and who he would never “date” – like he always does, the romantic fool. He’d been in a rotten mood because that day he’d taken off his baseball cap, one of those ones he’s got with the really clever slogans on it, and a bunch of his hair came unstuck. Honestly, it was about the volume of two newborn chicks. He’d done some breathing exercises but this didn’t improve his mood any, so, like he always does, he came to me for a bit of TLC, beautifying and bitching.
Anyhoo, while he was gobbling up those magazines he spent a really long time looking at pictures of Heidi Klum – you know, that supermodel who used to be married to Mr Seal. And Mr Trump looked kinda sad and thoughtful for a while.
I recognised that look. He has an enormous heart, my Mr Trump. He’s incredibly sensitive. Mainly about his own feelings, you know? Because he’s a leader, a real winner, and that’s what they do. I got to thinking that maybe that skinny Ms Klum had hurt those big ol’ feelings in the past so I gently got him talking about her, to draw the pain out of the poor dude. I was like: “Dayamn, she’s still got it, even though she’s ancient. What is she now? Like 70?” And he’s like: “She’s 42, babe, she’s 42. She used to be a ten, but not any more.”
Once I’d worked out that he’d said “a ten” and not “ten”, I stopped what I was doing, cast aside my gluey gloves and held his beautiful face in my hands, looking straight into those big, wise eyes – deep pools of hurt and history. And you know what I said? I said: “Mr Trump – that is gold. Pure, glittery, Vegas gold. Classy like a high-roller’s bathroom taps. You’ve gotta use that line next time you’re in a tight spot.”
And Mr Trump called me a genius, kissed me on the forehead and gave me a twinkle I’ll take to my grave. He’s very much in touch with his animal masculinity and I like that in a man. It’s nice to know I’ve had a real influence on his policies. And sure enough, a few hours later, Mr Trump mentions in a TV interview that Heidi’s no longer a “ten”, and makes it look like it just slipped out. Genius.
Some people say I have too much influence on him, but they’re just jealous. I’ve heard some of his so-called “advisers” – those whiny suits – speculating about how the glue I use for his head contains dangerous solvents that haven’t been approved in lots of countries, but I refer you to my earlier response. Haters gonna hate. Sure, sometimes it makes us a bit giggly but we usually forget what we’ve been talking about so there’s never any harm done.
Another time he took my advice was when he and I were watching his favourite show, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, while I was trying to fix some damage done by helicopter wind.
One of the woman was being a real you-know-what and Mr Trump laughed for ten whole minutes (so much that there were white tear streaks running down his gorgeous orange face) then he poked me real hard in the ribs and said: “Hey, hey, you know what I think?” I took him a while to get the words out because he was sniggering so much. “You know what I think? I think she’s having her…”
At this point he went silent but mouthed the word “pee-ree-od” but only using the left side of his mouth, eyes all wide and wild, and laughed for another 15 minutes. Oh my Lord, it was hilarious. Mr Trump really knows what’s funny. He’s like Edgar Wilde or something.
I don’t always need to tell him what I think but I gave him that look he fully understands. And that look spells out: “Use it!”
So when that bony-assed Fox News meany Megyn Kelly gave him a hard time during a TV debate a couple of weeks ago, I was so proud to see he’d gone with my advice, yet again. He kept his cool with her, but afterwards, using subtlety like only he can, he said: “You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes. Blood coming out of her wherever.” He’s pure class, my Mr Trump.
At first he was a bit sad when Buzzfeed responded by doing a listicle called “17 Times Donald Trump Wasn’t Himself Because of His Period”, but he got over it in no time thanks to a little stress-relieving toy I had made for him. It’s a sort of doll I made from cast-off “golden fleece” and glue from his head kit, and it’s shaped to look like that Alec Salmond guy with the tartan pants. They used to be really good pals but they’re kinda enemies now. I don’t know what happened.
Anyway, Mr Trump sometimes blows off steam by whacking the doll with a golf club, and he’s also commissioned one of his science nerds to make a really complicated weapon that looks like a wind turbine. Like I say, I don’t understand what the deal is there, but I hate to see him unhappy.
Sometimes he takes to Twitter – I’d do it for him but my nails are too long so I dictate my thoughts and he keys them right in. I was so humbled when, in May 2013, something he (that is, I) wrote was retweeted 12,400 times and counting. It went: “Amazing how the haters & losers keep tweeting the name ‘F**kface Von Clownstick’ like they are so original & no one else is doing it.”
He’s got some real cojones.
But underneath the bravado, my Mr Trump’s a smart guy, and he has a bundle of what the experts call “coping mechanisms” for when he’s feeling grumpy.
That’s why he was he owns the Miss Universe and Miss USA pageants. He doesn’t stew in his bad feelings. No, siree – he just pulls himself up by his bootstraps, squares up his shoulders, and judges women on their appearance. It always cheers him up, and I do like to see him happy. And if he becomes president, I know there will be a whole bunch of fun ways we can cheer ourselves up together.