You shoulda seen the shock I had in the 70s, down to the shoulders, thick, dark, two fingers to the suits. And the burns along the jawline.
Yesterday I was showing the grandkids and they couldn’t believe the change. But fashion transformed when the band picked up punk. Like a hedgehog said Daisy when she saw the photo of me standing, guitar-clad, spikes gelled into place. I coulda been a contender I whispered in her ear, though she’s too young to understand.
Neither our music nor the hair held up; soon I was down on luck and Jennie had to snip those locks she loved. I got an office job; hair brushed to the side, tidy-like.
Daisy is standing on my knees, fingers climbing over my bare head. What are you doing, moneky? I tickle her belly until she squeals. All gone she says, patting my skull affectionately.
When the doctor arrives I pass Daisy to her mother and then rub my scalp, hands feeling ghostly fuzz. There are worse things to lose I think, winding a slow path towards the treatment room.
Rupert Dastur is a writer and editor. He studied English at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where he specialised in Modernism and the Short Story, after which he established TSS with the aim of furthering discussion, interest, and development of the form. He has supported several short story projects and anthologies, and his own work is in / forthcoming in A3 Review, Field of Words, Bath Flash Fiction Anthology 2016, and Bath Short Story Anthology 2016.