He hesitated. His shoulders trembled. Then, in a voice that cracked on the last word, he said, “The kids laughed at me. Said my hair looks stupid. Patchy. Messed up.”
I looked closer. His face was pale, drawn. There was more than embarrassment in his voice — there was shame. And something deeper.
He paused, then gave a small nod.
When I gently lifted the hat, my breath caught. Beneath the uneven patches were faint scars — thin, faded, but unmistakable. They traced his scalp like whispers of pain no child should carry.
I didn’t speak. I just began trimming, slow and careful. The only sound was the soft snip of scissors.
After a while, Jaden spoke again. “My mom’s boyfriend did it,” he said. “He got mad. Said I was talking back. I wasn’t.”
My hand froze.
I’d worked with kids in crisis before, but this was different. This wasn’t defiance. It was survival.
When I found my voice, I said, “I’m so sorry, Jaden. You didn’t deserve that. You never do.”
He didn’t respond — just nodded faintly. When I finished, I handed him a mirror. He studied his reflection for a long time, then gave me the smallest smile. The kind you earn.
Continue reading…
