My 8-Year-Old Son Came Home From the Barber With Half His Hair Cut—When the Crying Barber Told Me Why, I Went Pale

of his haircut?”

His eyes went to Tyler.

“I don’t know. Maybe five.”

“Buddy, the man who walked you here. How long have you known him?”

I turned to my son.

“What man?”

Tyler stared at his sneakers.

“Just a friend.”

“He’s old, Mom. And he’s nice.”

“What friend?”

“He sits by the ballfield sometimes. We talk about baseball.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. Maybe continue reading …