Most people don’t picture men when they think of hairdressers, certainly not straight men like me.

Not a barber (a common misconception), but a hair stylist. I cut men’s hair, but most of my clients are women. And even in a world that increasingly accepts us for who we are, people are still surprised to meet a man with an MBA—a former firefighter, military contractor, and mechanic—who became a hairdresser.

Maybe it’s my six-foot-something height. The messy man bun, the white T-shirt, denim, and tattoos.

Whatever it is, I strike people as an anomaly.

Growing up in North Carolina, I always deviated from the norm. Buck teeth, a high-pitched voice, and bad hair made me an easy target for bullies, so I learned to wear humor like a shield. Making others laugh kept them from laughing at me. The pain of being picked on also made me more sensitive. I cleaned up trash on the beach before building sandcastles. I stood up for a baby shark being poked by other boys. That same sensitivity shaped my creativity. My teacher, Mrs. Lucas, saw my detailed drawings and bought me sketchbooks to fill.

Being an only child raised by a stay-at-home mom taught me what it meant to be nurtured. I didn’t know the difference between feminine and masculine back then, and I’m grateful for that. Instead of worrying about behaving like a “boy,” I just got to be me. And I had no shortage of male role models: My father and grandfathers were my heroes.

Like my mom, my dad doted on me. After long shifts at the factory, he still stepped in as my playmate, carrying the same patience and dedication my mother gave me all day. That alone would have been more than most boys could hope for. But I had more. Two grandfathers who, in their own ways, made me feel singular—like their attention, lessons, and pride were all mine.

My maternal grandfather was much older when I was born, but the time we shared made an impression. He and my grandmother had tried for years to have children before my mother surprised them in his late fifties. He had no other children, so I think I became the boy he never thought he’d have. Age cut our time short, but his love for me outlasted his life.

If my maternal grandfather taught me about the love carried through lineage, my paternal grandfather proved that love can be just as strong when it’s chosen. My biological grandfather died suddenly of a brain aneurysm when my father was six months old, leaving my grandmother to raise three young sons. When my grandpa met her, none of that mattered. He loved her fully.

Fatherhood to another man’s children wasn’t a burden, but a privilege.

Her boys became his, though he never tried to erase the father they had lost. He honored that part of their story—he only wanted to be part of it. Years later, when planning for his own passing, he chose a headstone that placed my grandmother’s name between his and my biological grandfather’s.

These men defined what makes a man for me. Their lessons weren’t in grand gestures, but in subtleties: eye contact, respect, work ethic, integrity. A quiet compassion that carried the weight of honor. They were steady enough to hold someone close without shrinking from tenderness, and strong enough to show protection through presence, not words.

From them I learned that good men blend unspoken solidity with innate softness—a masculinity I was proud to inherit, and a legacy I felt called to embody.

What makes me a man isn’t about how I look or what I do for a living—it’s about who I am and how I choose to show up. That truth has shaped my own masculine renaissance. In a time crowded with toxic headlines and shallow models of “manhood,” I feel called to stand in the lineage of men who taught me better.

Stranger on the street or client in my chair—it makes no difference. I’ll hold the door, look you in the eye, shake your hand, and create a space that lightens your load and brightens your day.

It isn’t my mission to dismantle stereotypes. But if living fully as myself—a hairdresser who doesn’t fit the expected mold, a man blending strength with nurture—makes it easier for others to walk their own path, then that’s the work I’ll keep doing.

For the artists. For the men redefining what it means to be one. And for the boys who deserve better examples to follow.

My studio is a place where holding space and being held go hand in hand. I work to create an environment where people can entrust something intimate to me—their hair, a canvas they carry into the world every day. If they value themselves enough to invest their time and trust, then they deserve the best experience I can give.

Building a creative business hasn’t been easy. Starting over after divorce and entering beauty school as a third career at nearly 40, I often wondered what the hell I was doing. No one wants to live on ramen in midlife. It was brutal. But I believed in myself. I followed my heart, even when it looked reckless. And in time, I built a creative business by staying true to who I am.

Do the work. Know yourself. Bet on yourself. Put yourself out there. Make gut-level grit and fierce faith be your mantra.

If you’re authentic enough, if you’re true enough, people will come to you.

Maybe no one can say for certain what makes a man. Maybe the mastery I chase as an artist will always stay just out of reach. All I know is this: every man I’ve known, every job I’ve worked, every setback I’ve endured has made me—me.

Still unfinished, still in pursuit, still mastering what can never fully be mastered. And still shaping myself in the image of the men who defined what manhood means to me.