In my office, he stayed silent, the hat still on. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Please don’t make me take it off.”
I pulled up a chair. “You know the rule,” I said gently. “But if there’s a reason, I’ll listen. I promise.”
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.
“Jaden,” I said, “if you’re okay with it, I can help. I’ve cut hair before. We can even it out.”
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.
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