It’s not easy being a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee.

I would imagine. I am not a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee, and thus have no insight into the thoughts such a hairpiece might have.

What I do have, however, is a brain. The brain belongs to me because I was born with it. It is my brain, and I am very proud of how juicy and delicious it is because I am a human, and humans take pride in their brains, especially how juicy and delicious they are, because that’s what’s most important about brains. And with my juicy, delicious, 100% human brain, I can do cool things, like reason out what it might be like to be a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee.

It would not be easy.

I can, however, hypothesize how one (by which I mean a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee) might make their existence less not easy.

If I were a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee (which I’m not), I would start my quest for brain-munching and mind-controlling by latching on to a person of power. Not too much power, mind you. Not enough to trigger any warning signs in the scrumptious brains of the natural-born human public. Not real power, either: not strength, or conviction, or even the influence to achieve what I want right away. Just the notoriety and funds that sometimes accompany having actual power. Let’s call it celebrity.

The ideal mark would, of course, be someone with hair issues. The kind of person who would unwittingly welcome a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee without a second thought — or maybe even a first thought. It wouldn’t be enough to simply have hair issues, though. The hair issues would have to be an insecurity: not just a bald spot, but a sore spot. A weak spot.

It wouldn’t be the only weak spot, though. My mark would need a very, very fragile ego. A brittle ego.

…But not a small one.

This ego would be gigantic. Huge, even. The best at being big. Obvious and unashamed of its bigness.

But that wouldn’t make it any less fragile. It would be like a massive, bright orange balloon. Impressive in size, and yet easily popped.

And full of air.

And loud.

Once I had my human figure of superficial power and overinflated but fragile ego, I would begin munching on the tender tissue of the brain. You’d be surprised how painless a process that is. Most people whose brains are being eaten don’t shed a single tear throughout the whole process, though if they did the brain tissue wouldn’t be very good at wiping it away. Not that I would be giving them any spare brain tissue to wipe their eyes with, because that gooey gray gold is all mine.

I would enjoy the eating of the brain, but I wouldn’t gorge myself on it. I wouldn’t binge. I wouldn’t blow my reputation on a single night of ecstasy, nor several nights of ecstasy. Instead, I would savor it. Like when you have a Tootsie pop and you just keep licking it until you get to the center, no matter how long it takes. And when you get to the center, you roll the Pop to its other side, and begin again.

It would take years. Decades even. But my feast would go unnoticed. Quirks would slowly transition into flaws, and flaws slowly into sins, but most people wouldn’t care. My host might even feel better about himself: after all, I’m just taking a little off the top. A little worry there, a little conscience here, a little morality the other way. Just easing the burdens of brainhood. Just trimming all the things holding you back.

When I had my mentally tenderized human in position, I would begin to plant the seeds of political aspiration. They would sprout fast: moldy brains are the best soil for bad ideas. Everyone would laugh at me, because for all they know I’m just a normal toupee. Er, an overly ambitious celebrity who happens to wear a toupee that is completely normal. They might even enjoy the process. But all the while, I would be doing real work.

I would start by appealing to a demographic everyone looks down on. No, not a demographic for which people feel pity: just a demographic that the nation’s educators, news anchors, and artists consider unimportant. Dated. Outmoded. Not worth compromise, or civility, or consideration.

The bad guys.

The people responsible for all the bad things in the world. The people holding you back: holding us back. The people who had the chance to get with the program of all things love and equality, but didn’t, so they don’t warrant love or equality. A big demographic. Let’s call it half the country, give or take 10 percent.

Half of a country, told for the better part of a century that they’re on their way out, and that everything they believe is wrong. That they’re the villains of the story.

Let me tell you something about villains: they’re almost never who you think they are. Almost. The problem isn’t that people fail to spot the bad guys, but that their bad guy radar is enormously prone to false positives. The thing is, there just aren’t that many real villains in the world. But there are a lot of people that other people see as villains. And when you call someone who isn’t a bad guy the bad guy for years and years and years, they’re not going to side with you when a real bad guy shows up. A bad guy like me.

That’s when I win. There will be a lot of shouting, and a lot of protest, and I might even lose my position of power, but I’ll have already won. And best of all, nothing will change. The people whose sense of superiority started the fire will double down on their sense of superiority. The people whose stubbornness gave the fire its fuel will double down on their stubbornness. And no matter who sits in that chair, you can bet your money that somehow I’ll wind up sitting on their head.

That’s what I would say if I were a sentient, brain-munching, mind-controlling toupee. I’m not. I’m just a normal human being with normal human opinions and a normal human desire to munch on bready substances and drink caffeinated beverages. I’ll tell you one thing, though:

There’s an awful lot of minds that need changing.