Ever been shopping for a car with a 15-year-old girl?

Let’s just say there’s a reason buying shoes doesn’t require credit checks, 28-page contracts and extended warranties.

With shoes, we women would never let a salesperson intimidate us into an add-on we didn’t need.

“A rhinestone starburst on a faux crocodile wedge? I don’t THINK so, Mister Man. But I will take the matching croc clutch and the 30,000-step or three-month heel retread. I am heck on a pair of heels.”

No offense to any of you car dealers out there but I eased my daughter into the whole high-pressure world of car sales by shopping in ski masks and black turtle necks at 2 a.m. when I thought no one would jump out at us and say “So what could I put you little ladies behind the wheel of today?”

Unlike some of Shannon’s friends, we are shopping for a “preowned” model, which back when I was 16 meant “done been drove by somebody else” — and in our case “done been drove a lot.”

I can’t afford to be pressured into even one add-on more than we need, meaning anything other than windshield wipers, and I’m not even sure she needs those. Hey, she can reach her hand out the window and wipe off a spot.

On our very first stealth night out, Shannon saw a car and fell in lu-u-u-uv.

It was like a sexy summer sandal, low-slung and shiny white, glistening in the car lot lights.

It also happened to be right in our price range, having been drove a lot.

“No,” I said emphatically. “Too small. Too sporty. Too dangerous.”

“But Mo-o-o-m. It’s so cute!”

It was cute. Even I’d admit that. Two seats. Two doors … if you didn’t count the suicide door. SUICIDE door!

It was small enough to fit under an 18-wheeler. Probably small enough to fit in a shoe box, if it came to that.

The next day, we still were arguing.