P. D. Clifton

I walk into the bedroom. Lizzie’s sitting on the bed, bald as the day she was born.

There’s a box on the floor… a small cardboard box, with a tasteful design on it.

On the box, in fancy writing, are the words ‘Smart Lace’.

‘Smart Lace?’ I say. ‘Sounds like some kinky kind of underwear!’

I waggle my eyebrows playfully at Lizzie.

‘It’s my WIG,’ Lizzie replies curtly.

I immediately stop waggling my eyebrows.

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