"Zoot suit. White jacket with vents ... ."

The record was playing 'Cut My Hair' by The Who as I took my suit from its hanger in the wardrobe. I held the clothing up so I could see it in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door and swayed back and forth to the music that crackled from the speakers of the stereo, accompanying the lyrics with my tuneless voice, until a hammering on the bedroom door interrupted me.

"Turn that bloody racket down!" my father demanded. He pulled the door open, exposing me to the rest of the house. "We can't hear ourselves think downstairs!"

I glared at my father with as much defiance as a scrawny teenager clad only in y-fronts and socks could manage. "Do you mind? I'm getting dressed," I hissed at him.

My father turned a shade of red and tried to look away. "Yeah ... Well ... ," he began, and his gaze briefly flicked downwards.

"What you looking at, you pervert?"

My father opened his mouth as if to retort, then caught himself and retreated to the high ground of parental authority. "Just turn it down - right?" he growled. Then he turned his back and pounded down the stairs to the safety of the lounge. I waited until he had vanished from sight, then slammed the door bedroom door shut.

Alone once again, I laid out my clothes for the night on my bedspread: trousers, jacket, shirt, tie, shoes. Tonight called for me to be in my finery - a young peacock strutting his stuff. I dressed slowly, enjoying the feeling of new-pressed cotton and itchy wool against my skin. As The Who launched into 'Bell Boy;, I was standing in front of the mirror, making the last adjustments to my dress: straightening my red tie, adjusting the yellow wingtips of my shirt collar so they covered the lapels of my blue shirt just so. Just because my home, my life were dull did not mean that my clothes had to be. I took a minute to smooth my hair down, fixing it in place with some cream, then headed downstairs to begin my night.

My parents were slumped on the sofa, their faces illuminated by the flickering monochrome light of the television. As I opened the front door, a cold gust roused them from their stupor. My father looked over his shoulder and grimaced. "Where are you going?"

I shrugged. "Out."

"Dressed like that?"

I ignored him and stepped into the street, slamming the door behind me.