My hairdresser and I are not brother and sister. We just don’t like small talk.

As I was getting my hair cut yesterday, my hairdresser, Jen, and I were engaged in a discussion about the dynamics of the typical spousal relationship as it relates to the fundamental nature of men and women.

I know that might sound erudite and possibly an exaggeration, but it’s not. It’s truly what we were speaking about.

At one point, we disagreed on what was previously said, so we turned to the woman in the adjacent chair for a ruling. Jen asked, “Have you been listening to what we’ve been saying?”

“No,” the woman said, lowering her magazine and glaring at us. “But are you guys brother and sister? Because you argue like you are.”

Jen laughed. “No, we’re not arguing. This is the way we always talk. Actually, I think this is the way Matt talks with everyone.”

This is why I adore my hairdresser. When I go to the salon every four to six weeks to get my hair cut, I’m never forced to endure meaningless small talk or mindless jibber-jabber. Jen and I invariably end up in a discussion with enough depth and passion to cause people sitting next to us to assume that we must be related in some way in order to speak to one another with so pointedly and with so much emotion.

That, and she’s fast. I’m in and out in less than 45 minutes every time, and that includes a shampoo. 

I can’t stand to waste time on something as ultimately meaningless as a haircut.