I am divorcing my hairdresser.

At least it feels like a divorce. When Kelly cut my hair the first time, she was eighteen. As her name implies, she’s Irish with red hair and a fiery personality. When she changed hair salons I followed her. When her son Finn was born, she decided to set up a one-person salon in her home. Her home is thirty-five minutes from my home on a major highway. It was a serious commitment, but I wanted to stick with Kelly.

Until recently.

When I went to her house in July, I got into traffic jams going in both directions, and the trip took forever. In the New England winter, it can be a harrowing drive.   And I’m not the youngster I used to be.

So I finally decided that after thirty-some years, I needed to find a salon closer to home. It was hard to tell Kelly, but she understood.

As usual, when I need something, I consulted my neighborhood list-serve. I got plenty of recommendations. But I’ll never have another thirty-year relationship with my hairdresser.

Alas…