Look at it: the hair. Whereas the senator is deceitful, the hair is steadfast. Whereas the man commits hypocrisy—in public, family-values warrior; in private, doing a married employee—the Hair remains unwavering, always. (Also, possibly, waterproof.) The Hair is proud, even disdainful; when a chastened Ensign said his infidelity was “the worst thing I have ever done in my life,” you could almost see the Hair smirk—it has been atop the senator through every mistake, and it knows: This wasn’t the worst. (The Hair might not have voted so unthinkingly for the war.) And when pundits declared Ensign’s White House aspirations ruined, could you think of a single presidential quality he possessed other than the Hair? Any gravitas he could muster resided there. Indeed, seeing the Hair in the mirror every morning—cresting firmly, craving attention, yet the kind of hair you could have a beer with—is surely what first convinced Ensign he had Oval Office potential. Even then, of course, the Hair must’ve known such hopes were doomed, because it knew of Cynthia Hampton, it knew the senator couldn’t outrun his own hollow sanctimony, and it knew the sad truth: that it is the Hair’s misfortune to reside on a man who doesn’t deserve it.