Two heads of hair were chatting to each other.
They had mislaid the heads and bodies that they belonged to, but in some respects that was a good thing; unfettered by time and place, they could chat amicably about the things that concerned them most: power and being the centre of attention.
Johnsonthatch was amiable (until crossed). He spoke of his owner as being a bumbling fool but quite fun to be attached to; although apparently scruffy and haphazard, Johnsonthatch was actually carefully coiffed to look cute, so that journalists wrote about him in the same way as they would a favourite dog or long-haired kitten. Johnsonthatch's job was to cover up Johnson's real purpose, which was to be the Big Boss Of All, while seeming to be funny and friendly as the fool next door.
Trumpsweep was in a different arena; he was accused of letting his owner down and despite begging for mercy in the form of a decent haircut, Trump himself dogmatically refused his pleas. Trumpsweep did enjoy being blond, though, because he shone out in a crowd (and what crowds!) and he rather liked to compare himself to yellow sunshine and of course, gold.
Sitting on their red velvet cushions, the two heads of hair spoke animatedly about what they would do when they were In Charge Of Everything. Perhaps they could get the unsightly poor, elderly and disabled people to live in caves? That would get them out of the way. Render them all unable to reproduce and give them Sky TV all day and then they wouldn't notice anything that was going on around them.
Ho ho! They laughed in unison, their follicles trembling with glee.
As night drew in, the two heads of hair continued their banter. Each of them, however, was secretly thinking profoundly of ways to destroy the other, for there could only be one Big Boss Of All In Charge Of Everything, and that had to be him.