Seven Bald Pates

A jittery groom, Bobby, hears—from a pal whose facts are as reliable as wet tissue—that a bald process-server will crash his nuptials with legal papers. The next chrome-domed stranger who stoops to retrieve the fallen marriage license is, of course, a benevolent uncle, but Bobby sees only a scalp gleaming like a courthouse seal and bolts. Groomsmen, bridesmaids and assorted in-laws turn the reception into a slapstick witch-hunt for hairless heads: every polished pate is trussed, gagged, interrogated; champagne fountains topple, tiered cake becomes collateral shrapnel, and the organist keeps vamping Mendelssohn in a minor key. Meanwhile, the bride—equal parts vestal and velociraptor—navigates tulle, train and temper as she tries to halt the carnage. By the time the real server—a luxuriantly coiffed man—saunters in, the ballroom resembles a post-battle Gettysburg of cummerbunds; love, however, survives the follicular fiasco.