How the mega rich get their hair so perfect. I hang out with rich people volume whatever, I don’t care.
O.K. Let’s be real for a minute. The gap between me and you (unless you are an exclusive, rich, multi-billionaire and happen to be reading this) is wide and gets wider every second. So much so that by the time we’ve finished this paragraph, I may as well fade out of your mind and you can feel like it was déjà vu or something.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it for me to write this column and let you know about how the truly wealthy of the world operate and live. It kind of feels like feeding a rat. You don’t get anything in return and the rat will probably bite you at some point. But here I go again. Try not to bite me.
The Intergalactic Business Report asked me to focus on fashion stuff this month, because apparently that’s something people like you care about. I think that’s mainly because a lot of poor people believe that rich people are into clothes and makeup and hair. But in reality, all that stuff is what poor people and actors are into. Not the ultra-rich. Instead of worrying about what to wear or how to look, they just take it. I’ll explain.
I was with my friend Monty, whose actual name is Manny, and I think our trip down the Rhine river in Germany is a good example of what super wealthy people do to look their best in public. It’s basically a story about Monty’s hair.
Anyway, Monty bought one of those river cruising boats that you see on commercials for river cruises. He was like, “Fuck those stupid people cramming into boats and filming themselves for commercials! I'm going to buy a boat for just me and my friends who are better than other human beings because we're all rich!” Or, really, that’s what he should have said. Instead, he just invited me to join him and some friends as they spent three really slow days on the Rhine.
Back to Monty’s hair. It’s perfect. Like the kind of hair you see and say, “I’d like to make that into a wig.” Which got me thinking that it probably was a wig. Which got me thinking that all the rich people on the boat with me were wearing wigs, because all their hair looked so damned good. I should also mention that I was absolutely blasted on drugs and this must have made me really focused on everybody’s hair.
Sometimes when I do drugs with rich people, I’m the only one doing them, at least overtly. I assume the others on the Rhine trip had also taken a bunch of pills without understanding what they did or what they were, but I just did it right there at breakfast the first day, because I’m not a pussy and I have nothing to hide.
Monty was all like, “Woah, Darryl, what are you doing?” And I just thought, “The same thing everyone else here is doing—taking drugs for no reason.” But I kept that to myself and just washed the pills down with some orange juice or something.
Monty backed off and the whole group started talking about how beautiful the river was. I kept thinking how beautiful their hair was. And this is what led me to the secret about rich people’s hair.
It’s pretty simple actually. No matter how wealthy you are, the odds of your being born with a perfect head of hair is still not in your favor. So you buy hair, just like you buy everything else. But how do you find the greatest, best hair? I asked them.
But when I spoke, it was garbled and as if my mouth muscles no longer worked. I said, “Moosh. Moosha hair? How?” I think that got the point across as well as I could in the moment, but I still received uncomfortable stares and did not receive an honest answer.
One of the women said something about her hair. She said, “Are you asking about my hair?” I nodded furiously. This seemed easier than speaking. She blathered on about her stylist or something, which made me know immediately she was lying and that she had stolen that hair from somewhere, from someone, but who?
You see, even the greatest wigmaster on the planet can’t get you the best hair because no one who has the best hair would give it to a wigmaster because wigmasters aren’t rich enough to just walk up to someone and say, “Hey, can I have your hair?” They probably try, but they only offer a couple thousand dollars, and then people say, “No. I think I’ll keep my hair.”
The ultra-rich keep their eyes open for the very best hair and simply offer like a million dollars to whoever has it to cut it off and give it to them. Then they somehow surgically attach it. With all the drugs flowing through my system it was difficult to solve the whole mystery as quickly as I usually would. I wandered away from the breakfast table and went to the lower decks where I saw the boat captain speaking with some crew members.
They looked surprised to see me, but the biggest surprise was mine. The captain had the most amazing hair I’d ever seen. I asked him if I could touch it, and by “ask” I mean, I just touched it. He stepped back as if I’d grabbed his dick and then he said something about how I must be lost and that I should join the other guests.
I had been resting my mouth for a little while now and had saved up enough energy to scream, “Give me your hair, motherfucker!” And then I tried to take it.
Which leads me to the three new lessons I learned about the ultra-rich:
1. Even on a luxury boat, there’s one crappy room that locks from the outside. They held me in there for two days just because I wanted what they wanted and couldn’t express myself properly.
2. If you try to take their hair, servants like the boat captain will physically assault you like a coward.
3. If an ancient shaman appears to you when you’re locked in a boat cabin and he tells you just to walk through the wall and you’ll be free, he’s totally lying. You’ll just walk into the wall and fall down in the pool of vomit you created earlier, which the shaman also told you that you could walk through and be free.
In conclusion, I don’t think I need to tell you that river cruises suck. I began to question not only Monty’s judgment, but his investment in our friendship. Especially after my captivity and his calling some police servants to remove me from the boat and drop me in some crappy medieval town that had zero drugs, people with good hair, or wi-fi.
But at least the trauma of Monty’s rudeness led me to having a breakthrough idea about how to avoid the situation I was in from happening again. It hit me as if I were someone like you being slapped by someone superior. Poor people should have hair that just comes right off if you swipe a credit card near their heads. That way, rich people could just take your hair when they wanted it and this would create a whole new economy.
As brilliant as that thought was, and although it probably could have made me billions of dollars, I settled into the realization that my destiny was not to be richer than everyone else (although, as you can see above, I could be at any time I desire), but, rather, to befriend, guide, and sometimes discipline the people who are.
Wisdom transferred. Onto whatever I feel like doing next.
Darryl Smurten reports on the mega- and ultra-rich. His up-close insights about how they live provide even common peasants the ability to glimpse, if for a moment, the light of the good life. If you are ultra-rich and don’t know Darryl yet, and would like to invite him to hang out with you, please contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org. Don’t expect him to get back to you right away.
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