To the five gray hairs I plucked out of the right side of my temple yesterday morning,

As if it wasn't enough that I recently turned 35. And not so recently became single. But there you showed up on top of my head. In short white defiance. Like little Napoleans. I was driving in LA (which is perhaps why I was already more self-conscious) and out you came.

I looked at each one of you. Your thick roots. You reminded me of cat whiskers. You looked a lot like cat whiskers.

There were more of you scattered throughout my scalp. But I only attacked the one temple. Where the part is. And I felt somewhat better.

Little gray hairs, I don't know how often you plan on growing. I can't predict if I will be compelled to pull each one of you out. And I haven't even begun to think about dying my hair.

I'm just not there yet.

But thanks. Thanks a lot.

Being reminded of one's mortality is a common occurrence throughout the holidays. I would of thought about it anyways. I didn't need you to remind me.

What I do imagine is collecting all the gray hairs. In a small box.
A nest of hairs.
And maybe there
I will be more happy owning them.

It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?

Gosh, is there a song as sad out there? Well, probably. But this Dylan song is merciless in its depths. It just keeps going. I find it rather fitting for the season we are in, with the hard slanty yellow light, the flaming trees, and the sudden barren branches.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?

When my friend Chela and I watched Scorcese's Dylan documentary, it was so hard for us to believe he was only twenty when he wrote songs like these. Can you imagine? Unlike my friend, I did not grow up with parents who idolized Dylan. That is to say, he was someone who I had to discover on my own. Or through various boyfriends that left their albums behind.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

The thing that we really lamented though, was not being part of a scene. Whether it was Haight Ashbury, the beats, folk music, or even Warhol's factory, we both had to admit we had never been included in a movement that seemed to have that kind of frenzy, passion or verve. Hell, we even missed grunge. And honestly, by the time you reach our age, could it even be possible?

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?

So we sat in her house, while her kids were asleep. We made tea and watched how Dylan became great. We ate cookies, wore slippers and stayed up late. Then we felt sad, and old and hopeful and small.

But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

I can't help myself

*

In preparation for writing a rather boring post about the cool Bob Dylan documentary I just finished watching--because really who cares what I think about it?--I've decided to link instead to this article written by a friend and former high school classmate. It's about our Catholic high school and our time spent in it. Ok and you should also read this article she wrote, too. Because it has to do with the same thing. I really should do that documentary about our high school. It's only about number 56 in the list of films I want to make!

* _{I really did wear that uniform although I never have gotten the nerve up to be a nun--pregnant or otherwise--for Halloween. I guess I am waiting for that someone special who will go with me as a drunk priest.}