Today I want to share something that reminded me why showing up with heart matters more than anything else we do.
The call came during second period:
“Can you come down to Room 12? One of the eighth graders is refusing to take off his hat.”
When I got to my office, it was Jaden. Usually quiet, respectful. A good kid. But today, he was curled into the chair like he wanted to disappear. Hat pulled low.
“They laughed at me,” he mumbled.
He finally lifted the cap and my heart sank. His haircut was a mess. Jagged lines, random bald spots… the kind of thing middle schoolers will not let slide.
I could’ve written him up. Sent him back to class. But this wasn’t about a dress code violation. This was about shame. About hiding.
So instead, I went to my cabinet and pulled out my old barber kit.
(Back in college, cutting hair was how I paid rent.)
“Let me help,” I said.
He nodded. I draped a towel over his shoulders and started shaping him up. As the first smooth line buzzed into place, I felt the tension leave his body. And then, he started talking.
He talked about how laughter sticks with you. How it follows you home.
And then… he told me about the scars.
Tiny raised lines on the back of his scalp. I asked gently if they were recent.
“They’re from my mom’s ex-boyfriend,” he whispered. “He used to get mad. At her. At me. The last time, he threw a coffee mug.”
The haircut, it turns out, wasn’t a cousin’s bad attempt it was his. Or maybe it was him. Trying to apologize. Or trying to mark control again.
And then Jaden said the words that made my blood run cold:
“He found us. Last night.”
He and his mom had left. New place, new start. But last night, the man showed up again. Said he’d changed. She let him in.
That was it. I put the clippers down. My job had changed.
“Jaden,” I said. “You’re not getting on that bus today. You’re staying right here. We’re going to make some calls. And we’re going to make sure you and your mom are safe.”
And that’s what we did.
CPS. The police. A social worker. A mother on the phone, sobbing because she didn’t know what else to do. A plan. Emergency protective order. A new shelter with security.
When Jaden left a few hours later, he stopped at my door. Hair clean. Lines crisp. Shoulders just a little straighter.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re a good kid, Jaden,” I said. “You deserve to feel safe.”
He smiled a little, touched the back of his head where the scars were now hidden.
“You know,” he said, “you’re a pretty good barber.”
I smiled back. “I’m a better principal.”
That day, I broke a school rule.
But I followed something bigger.
I listened.
I paid attention to why a kid was hiding instead of punishing him for how.
Sometimes what they need isn’t discipline.
It’s a safe place.
And maybe… a decent haircut.