Man on the Left: “I do believe someone is trying to get your attention.”

Woman on the Right: “And I do believe I’m trying to ignore her.”

Hair in the Middle: “Darling, you can’t ignore me. I run this place, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that things go as they should. And it appears that you didn’t get the memo that hairstyles are to be intimidating this season. Just look around you.”

Woman: “Well, I can see that one woman on the dance floor with hair that hasn’t been teased and coiffed to satanic proportions. She must have overlooked the ludicrous memo as well.”

Hair: “Oh, pay no attention to her. She’s a slut with no formal training. The family still has money, although I don’t have the faintest idea how, so I have to let her past the velvet rope despite my misgivings. But eventually she’ll be arrested for something tawdry and her lack of style will be a distant memory. Surely you don’t want to end up in the same boat with all the other straight-haired harlots. It just wouldn’t do, my dear.”

Woman, looking at the Man: “And what do you have to say about this preposterous intervention, as you sit there and not defend me whilst your pterodactyl claws clutch the table and clearly won’t be clutching me later this evening. Why do you find this so funny?”

Man: “Oh. Well, in my own weak defense, I must say that my testosterone has been completely vaporized by the sheer wattage of our hostess’ hairstyle. And that cracked-open smile. It’s like a black hole sucking in smaller planets.”

Hair: “Oh, trust me, this smile is completely insincere. It’s just that I haven’t been able to close my lips or my eyes since Alejandro winched up my hair at Chez Nouvelle. He does wonderful work, and you can’t put a price tag on such sublime artistry.”

Woman: “And was your soul on the receipt?”

Hair: “Soul? Who has one of those anymore? How quaint of you to mention such a thing.”