Fancy-Lady Salons Don't Want to Comment on Why Bad Hair Extensions Are a Republican Uniform

Illustration for article titled Fancy-Lady Salons Don't Want to Comment on Why Bad Hair Extensions Are a Republican Uniform
Image: Joan Summers/Jezebel, Getty

This was originally going to be a blog about the many terrible hairpieces that overran the Republican National Convention last week. I’d say they “swept” across the stage, crowned atop the heads of various pundits and heiresses and nefarious girlfriends, but the more accurate description would be “crunched,” or “hung listlessly.” The terror of their ugliness confounded me and held me firmly in its grip. These were a bunch of rich women, or women dating rich people, so why didn’t their hair look at least slightly better. Too bad that blog doesn’t exist anymore because nobody wanted to talk to me about Kimberly Guilfoyle’s choppy, poorly blended extensions.


If I was to guess, Republican women are handed a style guide when they first enter the halls of power, whether that be on a convention stage or Fox & Friends, and asked to strictly adhere to its contents. I’d imagine this list includes, in no particular order: Sheath dresses, fascist-lite “power suits,” the color red, incredibly heavy eye makeup, and most importantly, chunky hair extensions. It’s that last item I was most interested in when I first set out to investigate.

Kimberly Guilfoyle, in particular, donned what I believe are the most poorly blended clip-ins to ever grace the Republican National Convention. Extensions require blending, the subtle, necessary art of disguising where one’s hair ends, and the extensions begin, usually with some clever comb and weave work. Kimberly is also one of the few women to ever perform a poorly written, one-woman screed— wild-eyed and screaming—in recent election memory.

It seemed like Kimmy was trying, through her clipped on locks, to imitate the air of a very rich, very powerful woman, one who can girl boss the convention stage, and really, really impress her prospective father-in-law slash autocratic-regime leader. It’s the red suit, and bold eye makeup, and glistening white chompers, combined with enough hair to braid a rope and escape whatever gulag she and the Trumps might someday end up in. It’s the sort of hair you get done at a salon for fancy ladies, where the receptionist hands one champagne as black credit cards faintly go woosh in the background. I am neither a fancy lady, nor someone who has been handed champagne by the receptionist at a hair salon, but I’ve seen enough episodes of the Real Housewives of New York to think that’s real.

You can buy my new RNC merch on the official Jezebel store: “I stared into the abyss, and all I got was this ugly clip-in.”
You can buy my new RNC merch on the official Jezebel store: “I stared into the abyss, and all I got was this ugly clip-in.”
Image: Olivier Douliery (Getty Images)

So, I set out to find some salons for fancy, rich Republican women. The first salon I called was a ritzy establishment on the Upper East Side, a place I imagine would be filled with women who want their hair to look like Kimmy’s. That was, perhaps, an incorrect assumption! After a terse exchange with the receptionist, to whom I calmly explained my current line of inquiry, they redirected me to a general email. “I’ll have someone get back to you.” They never got back to me.


And so I called a second salon, somewhat down the street, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “This is a place for fancy ladies,” I thought. This time, the receptionist hung up on me before I could finish my train of thought. It was proving difficult to find a fancy salon willing to take about Republican women’s hair extensions with me.

Another prominent fixture at the RNC was Tiffany Trump, once-rumored black sheep of the Trump extended universe. If you went by Fox News’ account, she dazzled in her dictator suit and gogo top, voluminous lash extensions sending warm, coronavirus-laden gusts of wind throughout the crowd. Of course, there was plenty to talk about here. This particular shade of lipgloss, or the abuse of under-eyeliner, or the Tiffany chain-link bracelet. (Do you “get it?” Her “name” is “Tiffany.”)

Illustration for article titled Fancy-Lady Salons Don't Want to Comment on Why Bad Hair Extensions Are a Republican Uniform
Image: Chip Somodevilla (Getty Images)

But again, I wasn’t the least bit interested in her various baubles and trinkets. I only wanted to know about the hair extensions. These were slightly less chunky than Kimmy’s, and in photographs, look almost blended. But on television, they seemed to be clinging for dear life to her hair strands. I called one more salon, out in the equally ritzy Hamptons, for comment. This time, I changed my approach, and instead of asking to talk about the “ugly” hair extensions, I merely said I wanted to break down the “interesting” hair extensions. Once again, I was given the run-around.


I’m pretty sad. Nobody wants to talk to me about the ugly hair extensions, or the many questions they present: Who does them? Why are they so chunky? Do Republican figureheads know that they need to blend them? Most importantly: who first issued the style memo that pundits need to dress exclusively like Polly Pockets, rubber hair included?

And so, short of any fancy people salons willing to speak with me on the record, I’ll instead throw a hope and prayer out into the universe. If, by chance, you are the stylist responsible for these extensions, feel free to email us at



I spent the majority of my life living near a couple of the richest zip codes in the country. Rich people style comes in a few flavors:

  • The stylish, understated, “this perfectly fitting white button-up cost $800" ones.
  • New Balance-wearing, 3-year-old iPhone-having, also worth more than you’ll ever see in four lifetimes ones.
  • What you see at the RNC, the rich version of “white trash”. Trying too hard to look like the first one but failing miserably due to poor taste. Will pull up to Starbucks in a brand new Tesla, flash their Rolex, then argue about paying 50 cents for an extra shot of espresso. The absolute fucking worst kind of person you can possibly encounter in your day-to-day life.