As a girl dad, I’ve learned something important:
There are many things I do not understand.

But nothing — nothing — prepares a man for the impending haircut of his 16-year-old daughter.

The toilet seat humbled me.

More on that later
The haircut?

The haircut exposes me.

Because here’s what you need to understand.

This is not a haircut.
This is a summit meeting.

There are consultations.

There are negotiations.
Reference photos.
Backup reference photos.
Angles. Lighting.
Words like “layers” and “texture” and “movement” being used with the seriousness of a real estate transaction.

Charlotte is at dinner, scrolling.
Zooming in.
Zooming out.
Tilting her head.
Comparing.

“This one’s too blunt.”
“This one’s giving 2019.”
“This one’s cute but like… is it though?”

I nod.
As if I, too, can see the subtle but life-altering difference between “long layers” and “face-framing layers.”

Um ……

Because Jim says…
When you don’t understand the language, do not volunteer to speak it.

There is that all-knowing nod.

Now let’s talk about the money.

I heard the number.

I thought it included airfare.

Surely this appointment comes with a commemorative plaque and a small scholarship fund.

But no.
It is for scissors.
And vibes.

Meanwhile, I have had the same haircut since Clinton was in office.

I sit down.
A woman named Patti asks, “Same?”
I say, “Same.”

With the possible exception of being shorter in the summer months.
Eight minutes later I look marginally more aerodynamic and we all move on with our lives.

Charlotte’s appointment will take hours.

There will be washing.
There will be conditioning.
There will be strategic snipping.
There will be blow-drying with equipment that looks like it was borrowed from NASA.

And here’s the part they don’t tell you.

This haircut carries emotional weight.

This is 16.

This is identity.
This is confidence.
This is walking into school on Monday and pretending you “just did something small” while secretly hoping everyone notices.

And I sit there — the same man who once thought leaving the toilet seat up was heroic — realizing I have absolutely no authority here.

Because if she asks,
“Dad, what do you think?”

This is not a question.
It is a test.

And the wrong answer lives forever.

So I lean into my training.

Neutral face.
Measured tone.
Supportive but not intrusive.

“It looks great.”
Not too fast.
Not too loud.
Not overly enthusiastic — that feels suspicious.

Because Jim says…
Your job is not to understand the layers.
Your job is to protect the confidence underneath them.

And if the toilet seat taught me to put things back where they belong…

The haircut teaches me something bigger.

At 16, she’s not just trimming hair.

She’s practicing becoming who she’s going to be.

And my role?

Drive the car.
Pay the bill.
Say she looks beautiful.
Mean it.
And for the love of all things holy —

Shut the hell up at the right time.

• Friends and Family