My nine-year-old son had been getting his hair cut at the same barbershop for almost two years.
Then one Saturday, a new barber suddenly stopped halfway through the haircut, stared behind Ethan’s ear, and quietly told me,
“Check that when you get home. Somewhere private.”
Ten minutes later, I discovered a tiny black object concealed against my son’s skin.
Twenty minutes after that, two police cars were outside my house.
And before the day ended, I discovered that someone had been taking advantage of my son’s grief over his dead father to arrange something far more disturbing than I could have imagined.
It started like any other Saturday morning.
Tony had been cutting Ethan’s hair since he was seven.
Ethan trusted him, which mattered because my son has never been someone who warms up to people quickly.
We arrived shortly before ten.
Tony was still finishing another customer’s haircut when Ethan dramatically collapsed into a waiting chair.
“Mom, I’m starving.”
“You ate two waffles an hour ago.”
“That was basically yesterday.”
Another barber laughed.
I hadn’t seen him before.
He was younger than Tony, probably around thirty, with tattoos covering both of his forearms.
