Jobs Teenage Girls Should Not Have

W. Bruce Cameron

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2007.

One of the most important things a father can do is teach fiscal responsibility to his teenage children, which is sort of like teaching appetite restraint to piranhas.

The teen years represent a transitional period of life where people attempt to establish themselves as independent individuals by dressing exactly like their friends. They tend to confuse “need” with “want,” believing they need the most popular cell phone, they need the coolest kind of skateboard, they need the same purse everyone else has, when all they really need is to listen to their fathers.

What fathers will tell them is, “If you really want that stuff, go get a job and earn the money to buy it,” to which a teenager will reply, “OK, I need a new wardrobe for job interviews, plus a car.”

When my teenage daughters first embarked on what they were disappointed to learn would be a lifelong journey of employment, there were certain jobs I told them they should not even bother to apply for, because there were some professions I would not allow. Jobs where they danced by a pole, for example, were as off-limits as jobs where they drove cars for bank robbers. In fact, I can think of several occupations that are inappropriate for teenage girls:

Flight controller: These people are responsible for jockeying aircraft in the sky, guiding them to safe landings — not a job I would want to assign to a person who cannot avoid collisions even when parking in her own driveway. And I can picture the conversation with the cockpit:

Pilot: Flight 201 to tower.

Tower: I can’t talk now, I’m busy.

Pilot: Are we cleared for landing?

Tower: I don’t care what you do, I have my own life! God!

Pilot: We’re on approach, need approval to land.

Tower: Fine. Whatever.

Secretary of State: Since teenage girls are talking all the time anyway, perhaps they would be more suited for this job. Then again, maybe not.

Ambassador: I regret to inform you that my government has turned down your proposal.

Secretary of State: What? No fair!

Ambassador: We feel that how we manage our currency is our own business.

Secretary of State: That is so tacky.

God, all my friends are looking at us, I am so embarrassed. Leave me alone.

Ambassador: On behalf of our government ...

Secretary of State: Stop talking to me! I hate you! I hate you!

Physician: Currently, two of my children are on an educational course to become health-care professionals of some kind, which is good because it means that when I’m old and prone to illness, I can count on having quick access to student-loan debt. As teenagers, though, I would have said they were ill-suited for this profession because teens are not interested in work that requires a) education or b) work.

Patient: I have this cut on my leg. I think it might be infected.

Physician: Eww! Sick!

Patient: See? It looks bad.

Physician: I’m going to puke.

Patient: What should I do about it?

Physician: It so doesn’t matter. Your skin is all, like, splotchy and gross anyway. Who cut your hair?

Of course, employers wouldn’t hire a teenage girl for any of these occupations unless they live in a situation comedy. The jobs my daughters did get were in restaurants, where, against my dire predictions, they were considered to be hard-working, valuable employees. I stopped in to see how my middle child was managing and maybe give her some fatherly advice she’d appreciate.

Dad: Hi, honey!

Waitress: Dad! Stop!

Dad: Stop what?

Waitress: Don’t tell people I’m your daughter. God, this is so embarrassing.

Dad: So, what’s good to eat here?

Waitress: I don’t know, like, the food? Just tell me what you want.

Dad: Look at my little girl, working as a real waitress!

Waitress: Oh, God.

Dad (to a woman at another table): She always played waitress when she was a child.

Waitress: Dad!

Woman: That’s cute.

Waitress: I want to die.

My daughters claim that the problem was and will always be my perception of them, rather than the reality. But, of course, I know better — I’m their father.

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