His pop wears a wig. Too dark to be 89. Too slick and combed flat to be any kind of natural growth. But he insists. Warms his scalp under the air con, he says. Makes him feel part of the planet, he says. Sure. “Black paint on a skeleton!” one kid mouths, skateboarding past in the mall. Security gives him a dark nod and the kid gets off, tries to stomp-kick the board to his hands like they do. Fumbles it. Pop coughs. More of a cough-laugh.