And the Lord appeared unto Naftali at the Burning Mangal he was fanning in Ra'anana, and the smoke smelled of high-grade ribeye and coalition agreements. The Lord spake, saying:
“Naftali, My son—thou who art as smooth of pate as a polished marble in the Temple—thou shalt be Prime Minister. Thou art the successor to the House of Caesarea, the heir to the Bibi-lonian Empire.”
Naftali wiped the grease from his hands and trembled:
“But Lord! Look at me. I am but a humble tech-bro who hath found favor in the eyes of the venture capitalists. My scalp is a slip-and-slide. If I stand before the people, they will ask, ‘Where is thy mandate?’ and also, ‘Is that a glare coming off your forehead or the Shekhinah?’”
And the Lord, who enjoyeth a good bit of slapstick [יושב בשמים ישחק], replied:
“Fear not. I shall grant thee a miracle so statistically impossible that even the pundits at Channel 12 shall be silenced.”
Naftali’s eyes widened. “Will I turn the Mediterranean into high-tech exit money? Will I make the cost of cottage cheese drop below five shekels? Maybe a plague of frogs in Gaza?”
The Lord: “Nay. Behold, I give thee the Eternal Nano-Kipah. It shall be a circle of suede no larger than a bottle cap, perched upon the very precipice of thy occipital bone. It shall sit upon the smooth desert of thy cranium where no hair groweth to anchor it.”
Naftali: “But Lord… physics. Wind. Perspiration. High-speed pivoting toward Yair Lapid. It will surely tumble into the hummus!”
The Lord: “I say unto thee: It shall stay. It shall cling to thy scalp with the strength of a thousand Likud lobbyists. No clips shall touch it; no Velcro shall sustain it. It shall be held aloft by Divine Surface Tension alone. It is the ‘Anti-Gravity Headdress’—a sign and a wonder unto the nations.”
Naftali reached back and felt a tiny, woolen presence hovering precariously near his neck. “Wait… it feels like it’s held on by nothing but sheer audacity and a prayer.”
The Lord: “Exactly. It is the ultimate metaphor for thy coalition. If anyone asks how it remains, tell them: ‘The Lord is my barber; I shall not slip.’”
And it came to pass that Naftali went forth. And though the winds of the Opposition blew, and though he bowed deeply to world leaders, the tiny kipah remained fixed—a solitary, knitted island in a sea of scalp.
And the people marveled, saying, “Truly, this is a miracle. For it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for that piece of fabric to stay on during a cabinet meeting.”
