When I was a teenager, my barber was a kind and generous woman who cut hair one day a week to keep up on the small town’s gossip. She was my grandma’s, my mom’s and my sister’s hairdresser, and, as was my nature, growing up in a household dominated by women, she became my “barber.”

She gave me my only access to someone who had lived in California, and she dismissed it out of hand, saying only, “I enjoy having four seasons.”