Just feet away, the child’s mother sat trapped in her seat. Wringing her hands, she watched helplessly as her son looked at her, fear in his eyes. She tried to console him, but it’s hard to comfort another when you need comfort yourself. She steadied her breathing, knowing it would all be over soon.
Suddenly, the boy turned his head, and the man missed his mark, piercing the boy’s skin. It was just a tiny mark – barely enough to draw a single drop of blood, but it was enough to self both mother and child off into a chorus of tears and hyperventilation. The stranger rolled his eyes.
The clock ticked off fifteen minutes since the torture had started. That couldn’t be right. It seemed like hours had passed. The mother sucked in air, finding it tough to breathe through the thick smells of soap and lotion.
Finally, with a big smile, the man pulled the child’s restraints away with a flourish, then presented him with a mirror.
“What do you think, Bud?” the man asked cheerfully.
The boy refused to look in the mirror. He scrambled down and climbed in his mother’s lap.
“What about you, Mom? How does his first haircut look?”
The mother tried to smile. Through her weepy eyes, she replied, “He doesn’t look like my baby anymore.”