For the Toupee
From offstage, the speaker emerges. At first, his odd proportions and wrinkly visage underwhelm. His chin, weaker than one might expect, rises into a decided pout. Yet, a gleaming, golden wave crowns his head, and draws upward each critical eye. Secure beneath his helm of sweeping follicles, he begins.
He speaks in falsehoods. White lies and misrepresentations pour from his mouth in an endless, distracting stream of consciousness. Even his honest opinions bear but the trappings of truth. A maestro of misdirection, he gestures with wild abandon, painting reality in real time. The audience stares rapt. And then, as the illusion nears its apex, a sudden jolt sends his cap of amber waves awry.
Still, he does not waiver. The flocking faithful that surge about his podium do not seek truth. They have come for spectacle, for splendor, and for the promise of grandeur. He weaves the mythology of greatness, and they yearn to believe. Combing his golden talisman into place, he prepares to conclude his address.
(A pause.
One day, they might see through this illusion of follicles and falsehoods, and they might feel betrayed.
No.)
Brushing doubt away, he gives the crowd what they want. Elephants never repent.