I get my hair cut every couple of months, and periodically I try to find a hairdresser who will cut it the way I like.

Currently, I go to a nice young woman about whom I know far too much, because she talks the whole time. (She has an eleven-year-old stepdaughter whom she loves. She travels. She likes to buy designer bags. Last time I went, her thin hair was dyed black and was short. The time before that, she was blonde, with long extensions.) She spends an hour with me, consulting me for what I want, washing and conditioning my hair, using clippers and scissors with artistry and patience, and sends me away with sticky stuff in my hair. She only charges me for a men’s haircut, too, and I tip her generously nonetheless.

But I don’t want to go back.

See, I have very short hair. It’s going gray, but it’s abundant, thick, heavy, and just wavy enough to be a problem. What I want is not a full-service styling cut and a lot of conversation. What I want is someone to use clippers on the back and side, trim the top, and use thinning shears on the top and back so I don’t end up with lumps and bits sticking out. That should take about fifteen minutes.

My adult kid goes to a barber, because their hair is even shorter than mine. I consider doing that. My best success has been at Hair Cuttery, the chain, where I walk in and whoever isn’t actually having a smoke break outside asks me what I want and then does that in about fifteen minutes.

I know, I know, I’m lucky. A lot of women my age have thinning hair and pink scalp visible between the strands. A lot of them invest in coloring and perms. They blow dry their hair every time they wash it. I can’t imagine doing that.

My kid sent me a photo of me with the grandchild the other day, and I was startled to see myself as others might see me. I’m a small person, with a big head and short legs. I have a baseball cap on, and I’m wearing drawstring cotton trousers, black Crocs, and a long-sleeved cover-up, and I’m turned talking to him while he reads aloud from a book whose back cover says, “Who Says Monsters Aren’t Real?” We both look very happy. I have very short hair. It doesn’t matter because nobody is looking. Apparently I have a style.

That’s it. I’m going back to Hair Cuttery next time. I really, really don’t need an expensive haircut from someone who insists on putting sticky stuff in my hair and talks a blue streak. It’s not my style.