"Dad, do I have to get my haircut?"
I looked down at my eight-year-old son then, his dark hair and a tangle around his ears. "It's so long, why don't you want to cut it?"
He blushed and looked away from me.
"Spence... " I knelt down beside him, the flow of people in the mall parting around us.
"Yeah, dad?" He asks, his eyes a meeting mine with shimmering un-shed tears.
"Why don't you want to cut your hair son?"
Spencer sniffled, "I just want to not cut it."
I continue to stare at him, and eventually, he fidgeted uncomfortably and began again to speak. "Grandma needs it. She's sick."
This was the last thing I expected him to say. "Wait, Spence, tell me what you mean?"...
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