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.

I have been going to a nice young woman about whom I know far too much, because she talks the whole time. 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.

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.

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.

I saw 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. 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. In the photo, yes, I have very short hair. It doesn’t matter ,because nobody is looking. But 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 spending an hour on it. It’s not my style.