Twist Of Fate

Ten

HARRY

The sun is hot on my back as I make my way from the high street to the hair salon, a carrier bag swinging from my left hand containing a couple of new pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, a hoodie that was half price in the sale and a pristine pair of navy Nikes. I am not used to my neck being exposed, thanks to my previously long hair covering it for the past year or so, and my whole head feels strangely bare and light. Each time I catch my reflection in a shop window I am reminded of the drastic change I have just undertaken, and once or twice I have to look again at myself, as I keep forgetting that this new image is actually me. I have to admit, though, I can't help liking it. The barber has left the top a little long and messy but the back and sides slightly shorter, and it reminds me of a longer James Dean kind of look. Coupled with the new sunglasses I have just bought, I'm pretty pleased with the style overhaul. 

I pause at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change, and catch sight of a coffee shop opposite that will likely have a toilet I can use to change into my new clothes. I dart across the road, push the door open and slip past the queue of customers and straight into the Gents' at the back. Here I quickly strip off my dirty, faded, slouchy blue Levis and pull on one of the pairs of black jeans I have just bought. My left foot gets halfway in before it meets with resistance and I tug at it impatiently, wondering what is going on. The calves are impossibly tight, and by the time I have manoeuvred my other leg in too, and pulled them up my thighs to fasten the fly, I am starting to suspect I have mistakenly picked up a pair several sizes too small.

"Fuck!" I hiss, furiously. 

I twist myself around to examine the label in the back of the waistband, yet it claims to be a 32 inch waist which, last time I checked, is my size. I study myself in the mirror: I don't think I've put that much weight on, yet why else would these fucking jeans be stuck to my legs like fucking condoms? I twist round again, looking at my arse this time (which thankfully seems to fit fine and doesn't look too ridiculous) and catch sight of the cardboard label attached to the back pocket. One word stands out: Skinny.

For fuck's sake. These must be what people mean when they talk about skinny jeans. How could I have been so fucking stupid? I pull open the carrier bag impatiently to check the other pair, and to my fury they are exactly the same. I throw the bag on the floor in disgust and glare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like some fucking pretty boy who spends hundreds of pounds a month on beauty products and sips stupidly expensive cocktails with his little finger stuck out. This is the exact opposite of my style, and I feel like the biggest dickhead on the planet. 

I am just about to kick the wall in annoyance when I suddenly remember that the whole point of this expedition was to get a disguise, not to buy the sort of thing I would normally wear. I stand up straight and scrutinise my reflection again, trying to see myself through the eyes of a policeman searching for me. I wouldn't look twice at this numpty, with his drainpipe jeans and his coiffed hair. So I suppose this ridiculous get-up serves its purpose.

Grudgingly I retrieve one of the new t-shirts out of the carrier and pull it on roughly, before stuffing my old tshirt, jeans and boots back in. I shove my feet into my new trainers, sling my holdall onto my back and exit the toilet, pausing at the counter to purchase a takeaway cappuccino to drink on the way.

By the time I find myself in view of the hairdresser's where I left Chloe it is almost eleven fifteen. I saunter up the street, my eyes darting left and right looking out for any police that may be lurking, feeling a little self-conscious in my new attire. There is no sign of Chloe, so I peer through the steamy window of the salon, half hoping she has decided that tagging along with me is a bad idea and has abandoned me. There doesn't seem to be anyone inside, so I walk a little further along the street, dodging a little old couple and a woman with a pink pushchair, until I reach the end of the block.