Fast Lane

When I was young it felt like my world was spinning so slow like a dead end of the night- when all is suspended because of some clause of a magical delight. Decades later, I realized the older I get, the faster comes the resounding rhythm of my clock. One day my hair was straight- when I was about eight; then in high school, my hair became freezy- due to some nature’s wand. I grew it long, cut it short, had it re-grown; and then in my 20s I submitted myself to having my hair stretched every quarter so I’d look “in” and acceptable since society dictates that women with straight hair have more edge compared to those who were borne with curly strands like moi. In my 30s I started coloring my hair tolighten it for vanity’s sake. Now, in my 40s, I color my hair basically to camouflage the gray hair that grows as fast as the beansprout in the grocer. What is this? Nothing more than my entry to the ripe age of middle years where women go through heaves of bodily changes due to the force of gravity that says, “Hey you- you are not a spring chicken anymore! Wake up!” Geez. And I realize it yes, I am old but still feel young then when I was young I wish I were old so I could do anything I want to do since old people are privileged to be like that. Right? Now I am old but I wish I were young again. And never mind not doing what old people do- can, would, and are able to. Ha! Irony. Of life. Its mystery transcends day in and day out.

-Pizzicatto in North Beach
Copy right~ September 13, 2006
San Francisco, CA, U.S.A.