My daughter Naya is only eight, but I swear she’s got more heart than most adults I know. About two years ago, after watching a video about kids with cancer, she got it in her head that she wanted to donate her hair. No prompting, no pushing—just pure Naya.
She told me, “Some kids lose their hair and can’t buy wigs. I wanna help.” And that was that.
She’s been growing it ever since. Through tangles, summer heat, bad hair days, and other kids making fun of her “witch hair,” she never once changed her mind
A couple months ago, we hit the mark—12 inches. We made a little celebration of it. Took pictures, bought a silly headband for after the cut, and I reached out to the nonprofit myself to make sure we followed all their guidelines.
The appointment was supposed to be next week. But then… something happened at school.
I picked Naya up on Friday and saw she was wearing her hoodie way up, even though it was warm out. She kept her head down in the car. I thought maybe she was just tired or had a rough day.
But when we got home, she finally pulled the hood down.
Her hair was gone. Like… almost completely gone. Uneven, hacked off in patches. I couldn’t even process it at first. She just looked at me and said, “Ms. Trent said it was a distraction during class.”
I thought maybe she was joking. Or exaggerating. But nope. There was a note in her folder—some vague excuse about “addressing hygiene” and “classroom decorum.” I’m not even sure what to do next.
I stood in my living room, trying to hold it together while I stared at Naya’s jagged, uneven haircut. One side stuck out more than the other, as if someone had simply grabbed a chunk of hair and hacked it off in a hurry. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of anger and heartbreak. This was the hair that she had cared for so diligently, all because she wanted to help kids with cancer have a wig of their own.
I knelt down beside her, gently placing my hands on her shoulders. “Sweetie,” I asked, “can you tell me exactly what happened?”
Naya was normally so bubbly and chatty, but now her voice was small. “During class, my ponytail got caught on my chair,” she started, fiddling with the strings on her hoodie. “I was trying to fix it, but Ms. Trent said I was disrupting the class. She told me to stay after to talk about my hair. Then she said it was too messy and that it was distracting everybody. She… she just took scissors from her desk and started cutting.”
Hearing those words felt like a punch to my gut. Teachers were supposed to encourage students, help them grow—not tear them down. I hugged Naya tight. “You did nothing wrong,” I told her softly. “Absolutely nothing.”
I immediately composed an email to the principal, Ms. Kim. When that felt too slow, I called the school office, leaving a voicemail that probably made it clear just how upset I was. I asked for an urgent meeting first thing Monday morning.
That entire weekend, Naya hardly left her room. She didn’t even want to go to her friend’s house. All her excitement about the upcoming salon appointment was gone. It wasn’t just hair to her—it was a symbol of her commitment, her kindness, and the promise she’d made to help other kids in need. Now, it felt stolen.
I tried to cheer her up with some of her favorite things—her hot chocolate with a sprinkle of cinnamon, a new art set I’d been saving for her birthday—but nothing seemed to bring back the spark in her eyes. She was devastated, and I could hardly blame her. Part of me was right there with her, grieving a loss that went way beyond hair.
On Monday morning, we marched into the principal’s office. I’d never seen Ms. Kim look so serious. Her eyebrows were knitted together, and she spoke to Naya with concern in her voice. “Honey, I’m so sorry this happened,” she said, gently. “We do not allow teachers to enforce dress or hair standards that way, and certainly not with scissors in the classroom.”