It had been a good show. The bar wasn't full, but the crowd was older and they really got into it; singing along to most of the songs.
He stood in the shower, watching the water blacken as the dye pooled around his feet. He knew he could save himself a lot of time and hassle by using a permanent dye, but he just couldn't stand the looks that he'd get, in the supermarket, on the train, or walking down the street. The side burns he wore were bad enough.
He had the big Elvis-style chops that were a necessity in his line of work. He'd seen others putting on the fake ones at the competitions and conventions, but he couldn't do it. They lacked genuineness; they just looked weird. So he knew he had to put up with some looks from young people on the train, some sniggers behind hands, but he was prepared for it. When he was young everyone wore sideburns like his, but nowadays people were so much cleaner cut.
But if he dyed his hair, he knew what people would be thinking. That he was trying to cling to his youth, that he didn't realise how ridiculous he looked, how he was obviously afraid of growing old, trying to hold on to every bit of his youth.
On the contrary, he was only too aware of his age. Every time he went on stage the aching hip and arthritic knees reminded him of every single one of his 63 years. He didn't care though, the buzz he got from performing made up for it.
It was only once a week, every Thursday. He did a couple of sets at the B52s, the American themed bar in Huddersfield. He always got a good crowd, though not enough to retire on the takings at the door. Most of his fans were paying concessionary prices anyway.
He didn't do it for the money. He didn't mind the pain he suffered most of the next day after shaking his pelvis like Elvis. It was fun, and yea, it made him feel young. Though not in the way that those people meant. It wasn't like he was trying to forget how old he was. But he knew his best years were behind him.
His wife passed away five years ago. His only daughter relocated to Australia with her husband and her kids. He best friend of 55 years had just moved to Lincolnshire to be with his family. Singing a few Elvis songs for some old bitties meant that he could forget all that for a few hours.
Getting out of the shower, he dried himself off and put on his civvy clothes as he liked to call them. He was busy packing up the jumpsuit, planning to bring it to the dry cleaners before next Thursday, when there was a knock at the door.
It was some talent scouts from Blackpool. They wanted him to come perform for him. He knew dozens of people who would have jumped at the chance. Not him though, he didn't want to go professional, he didn't want the pressure or the stress.
He just didn't want to do it. And if his 63 years had taught him anything, it was that there's no point in doing something you don't want to do...