Pocahontas Scalps the Great White Father
The ladies up at Jolene’s Beauty Boutique and Gift Shoppe were all atwitter over Trump’s latest pot stirrer, calling Elizabeth Warren once again Pocahontas. “What is with all the name calling?” Nancy Jacobs was asking from behind her People magazine while her curls were curing. “Can’t the man just learn a modicum of courtesy? He is, after all, the President.”
Ronald was snipping and sniping from behind Mrs. Wilkerson’s chair, merrily joining the fray as usual. Jolene had long ago given up on curbing Ronald’s acid tongue and besides, he was her best beautician. And a favorite among some of her best customers after all these years. “What else would we girls have to talk about if the Donald wasn’t tweeting his little nasties every morning? I know I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, the boredom would be just too much. Too much!” he giggled happily.
“But to say that in front of all those Indians,” Barbara Massey, said, shaking her head violently and causing Shelley, the new beautician, to drop her scissors. “It’s shameful, is what it is. What must they have thought? He asks them to come to the White House for some kind of honor for the native soldiers and then he goes right after Mrs. Warren. It’s shameful.”
“Well,” Ronald sighed, “it IS called the WHITE House. The boy is just so happy to be the great white father, he forgets himself.”
“Shameful,” Barbara Massey said once again and Shelley quickly stopped cutting to let her have free rein. “He might as well bring the NAACP in for some honorific and call Obama Uncle Tom. It isn’t right.”
“Or maybe bring up the birther thing again,” Ronald said. “You never get enough of that. In fact he’s been saying it lately, I hear.”
“What kind of country are we living in,” Mrs. Wilkerson lamented. “I heard he was going on about the British First people, sending out phony stories about the Muslims, and now the British are upset. We have the Russians interfering and we aren’t doing one blessed thing about it and instead our President is making trouble in England.”
Ronald laughed. “The boy lives to offend. Half the country love that about him. Mean, nasty little bully, they wish they could do that too. They’d vote for him all over again.”
“I’d vote for Pocahontas,” Shelley said suddenly. The parlor went quiet. Shelley rarely offered any comments or editorials. “I would,” she said more firmly.
“Well, I’d vote to do the man’s hair,” Ronald said wistfully. “I’d give my left …” Ronald caught himself, “finger for a chance to do that tangerine hair. And think of the gossip in his salon, Jolene.”
Jolene looked up from the cash register by the front door. “Faux hair, Ronald.”
Shelley was the only one who didn’t laugh. “What he needs is a good scalping. Pocahontas wouldn’t save that white man, okay by me.”
And so it goes up at the salty salon, bastion of gossip, hotbed of frothy liberal discontent. The South End is many things, but fools are not much suffered, at least not the ones off-island.
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Tags: British First, Elizabeth Warren, Pocahontas