They say waking at 4 AM in unjustified panic is biological - a cruel trick played by rising cortisol levels designed to sabotage sleep as well as sanity. But occasionally, my early morning catastrophising is justified—like this morning when I realised I was singlehandedly responsible for the election of Donald J. Trump. Yes, it’s my fault.

I’ll explain.

During those still hopeful days of October 2024—when humanity tottered between oblivion and salvation—I found myself out of town and needing a haircut. Now, I’m fiercely loyal to my regular barber: he’s a good guy, empathetic, and progressive without making it his entire personality. Once, we almost went golfing together—but soon thought better of it, and it’s never been mentioned again.

Yet, here I was without him - marooned in a hipsterish corner of Sydney (location withheld for security reasons) and being forced to surrender my head to a complete stranger.

The barber I ended up with was South American. Is that relevant? Not necessarily—unless the conversation strays into US politics, where voting patterns among Latino men lean increasingly Republican. Anyway, he'd already started trimming my hair annoyingly short when he asked, 'You like Trump, sí?'

I’d been in enough political stoushes to tell that this was less a question and more a hostage situation. That’s when I spotted the MAGA cap on top of his workstation. How had I missed it? Silence fell over the barbershop as every head turned towards me, waiting for an answer. There wasn’t an open face among them - all hard men with hard faces, the types who believed Trump when he said he’d make everything better within 24 hours of taking office and, if they lived in the US, wouldn't care about the harm his policies caused, as long as the 'right' people suffered. And chief among the “right people” are woke people. “Fuck woke people.” No one was going to force these guys to be polite and decent against their will. But the question lingered - “You like Trump, si?” Hmmm. Faced with the threat of leaving the chair as a walking cautionary tale, I delivered a nod so tiny it was indistinguishable from a mild neck spasm.

Thereafter, beneath the hum of clippers, scissors, and proclamations about walls, tariffs, and sovereignty, I shamefully stayed silent. I’d decided a bruised conscience was preferable to ruinous hair.

But early this morning, months after the incident, my conscience exacted its revenge, and I had to face up to my complicity. Perhaps it was the polite, cowardly nods like mine that had got us into this mess.

If only I could reclaim that moment—to speak bravely and boldly. And maybe even request a bit more length on top.

• To those subscribers who like Trump, remember I did deliver a tiny nod. It wasn’t a neck spasm.

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