I could announce one morning that the world was going to blow up

“I could announce one morning that the world was going to blow up in three hours and people would be calling in about my hair!” So said Katie Couric, with wit upon her tongue, but behind her jest lies a sobering truth about the nature of human attention. Her words reveal that even in the presence of great and pressing matters, the multitude may be distracted by the trivial, drawn to surfaces rather than substance. This is not merely about hair, nor about vanity—it is about how easily the eyes of the world wander, and how seldom the heart fixes upon what is most vital.

The ancients knew this folly. In Rome, while statesmen debated war and famine, the masses clamored for “bread and circuses,” caring more for games in the Colosseum than for the fate of their empire. Couric’s lament is but the modern echo of this ancient cry: that humanity, instead of trembling at the thought of destruction, often chooses to obsess over appearances, comforts, and diversions. Thus, the prophet may shout of storms to come, yet the crowd debates the cut of his robe.

The mention of hair is symbolic—it stands for all things superficial, the adornments that catch the eye but do not nourish the soul. To be judged upon one’s hairstyle while speaking of the world’s end is to confront the strange irony of human nature: that we are drawn to the fleeting even as eternity looms. This truth should not fill us with despair, but with vigilance, reminding us to guard our own hearts against the seduction of distraction.

Consider the story of Cassandra of Troy, cursed to speak the truth yet never to be believed. She warned her people of the wooden horse, a vessel of doom. But the Trojans laughed, dismissing her as mad, preferring the spectacle of the gift’s beauty to the grim warning of its danger. Like Couric’s vision of announcing catastrophe, Cassandra’s truth was drowned out by fascination with appearances. Thus Troy fell, not from lack of warning, but from lack of heed.

Yet Couric’s words carry also a hidden strength. For though the world may not listen, the task of the messenger is still noble. To speak truth, even when the audience is distracted, is to stand in the tradition of all who dared to lift their voices against the tide of folly. The true calling of the journalist, the prophet, the teacher, or the leader is not to be loved for their appearance, but to persist in telling what must be told, whether or not the people hear.

The lesson is clear: fix your attention on what matters. In a world drowning in noise, do not waste your energy on appearances, nor be seduced by the endless chatter of the trivial. Ask yourself daily: “Am I attending to what is urgent, or merely to what is visible?” In your own life, do not mock the messenger for their clothing, their face, or their hair, but weigh their words, for truth may be hidden behind the plainest vessel.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, let this be your practice: cultivate depth of sight. When news comes, seek the substance, not the shine. When warnings are given, consider their weight before dismissing them. And when you yourself must speak truth, do not falter, even if others mock or turn aside. For in the end, it is better to be the one who declared the world’s peril, even if ignored, than to be among those who fretted over trifles while the fire consumed the horizon.

So remember Katie Couric’s lament: the world may always turn its gaze to the trivial, but the wise will fix their hearts on the essential. Let not distraction be your downfall. Seek truth, cling to it, and act upon it—for only those who look beyond the hair shall see the fire.