Landon ducked into the costume shop still wearing his backward cap, gym shorts, and fraternity hoodie, with the party already buzzing in his group chat. The theme was “come as someone you’re not,” and he wanted something funnier than a toga or fake cowboy hat. Then he saw it: a full English gentleman’s outfit on a mannequin — tweed jacket, waistcoat, crisp shirt, dark tie, bowler hat, and a polished wooden pipe tucked into a velvet-lined box. He laughed under his breath, imagining himself strolling into the frat house looking like someone’s ancient British uncle. The pipe sold it. “Perfect,” he muttered, thinking it would be hilarious to use it later to smoke weed.
In the changing room, the costume fit too well. As soon as Landon tucked the pipe into the corner of his mouth he sold the deal. He went glassy-eyed. The tweed tightened across his shoulders, then seemed to pull his posture upright, straightening his slouch into something dignified. His horseshoe mustache, grown after losing a bet, transitioned into the start of a more distinguished handlebar style.
His smooth college face sharpened, then transitioned through middle-age: crow’s feet etching around his eyes, laugh lines deepening beside his mouth, and the skin across his forehead loosened into warm, creased maturity.
His hairline crept backward as his dark hair thinned, then began to silver at the sides. Briefly regaining some sense of self-awareness, Landon lifted a hand to his cheek, with the vague notion that something had changed - but unable to put his finger on it. He tried to say, “Dude, what the—” but what came out was a crisp, startled, “Good heavens,” before the light in his eyes dimmed again.
The changes proceeded as his skin continued to age and his hair receded leaving a totally bald top. - pushing him into his 60s. What was left of his hair turned mostly white - including his signature handlebar mustache, a style he had worn for the last 40 years.
By the time he stepped out of the changing room, there was no panic left in him. The young man’s memories had folded away like discarded clothes. He adjusted his tie, placed the bowler hat neatly on his bald crown, and regarded himself in the mirror with calm approval. A distinguished English gentleman looked back: silver-haired at the sides, bright-eyed, deeply lined, and entirely at ease with himself. He gave the pipe a thoughtful puff, smiled beneath his mustache, and left the shop for home, having fully enjoyed his outing for the day and ready to curl up with a good book by the fireplace.
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