A friend of mine just told me he is surrounded by big wigs in work today.

At one point, a six-foot high silver-sparkle Cher number -- like the kind she wore during her last Vegas show, except six feet tall -- was shuffling by behind a cubicle when it ran into a much stouter Sy Sperling toupeé. The Cher wig didn't see the small, brown toupeé turning the corner, and boom, down they went in a tangle of long silver extensions and short brown plugs. They were cursing each other out, when an Elvis-style Pompadour ran over on its sideburns to shut them both up before they upset the President of the company, a Burt Reynolds weave that was in a sour mood after finding out that the stock had dropped three points.

I'd hate to work there, too stressful. My job is nice and quiet, and I really enjoy working hair.

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