Yesterday was my daughter, Taylor's, wedding day. The errands and busyness of the day's preparations were already in full swing when, late in the morning, my cell phone rang. It was my daughter, Madison, calling.

"Dad? Do you have a nose-hair trimmer?"

Granted, it was a rather odd question. It was also Madison. I've learned over time just to roll with these kinds of phone calls from her.

"Yes, I have a 'personal grooming tool,'" I answered, preferring the proper nomenclature for an implement that trims unsightly hair from inside certain dark cavities of your body. I continued to wonder where this was going.

"Okay. Clayton will be over in a minute," she said, referring to the groom.

The line went dead. My curious wife asked me what the call was about.

"Clayton's coming over to borrow my personal trimmer," I responded.

We stared at each other.

"That's kinda gross," she said slowly, "but, whatever. I don't want to know."

I went to the bathroom, got out the little electronic trimmer and returned just in time to hear the back door open. My future son-in-law walked in with what I would describe as a controlled scowl on his face. He looked at me. I handed him the tool. He stared at it.

"I'm going to use your bathroom" he said quietly as he walked past us towards the hallway.

"This wasn't my idea. I'm doing this for Taylor," he said as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.

And so, it begins.

Welcome to marriage, dude.