Little boy, giddy with independence, approaches the counter.
He is about seven and he is blonde.
“Excuse me, can I pay with my card?” He asks, clutching his wallet. This is important.
The velcro pulls apart with a tear.
“I’m putting in my pin now, mom. Don’t look!” He turns his back to his mom, shielding the keypad.
This is important too.
“Seven … three …” He whispers his pin out loud, oblivious to the fact that we can hear him.
“Can I sign my signature?” he asks.
The pin is wrong and he has to do it again. His mom whispers the numbers in his ear, just in case.
Finally. His sale goes through.
The slip states: No Signature Required.
“Can I sign my signature?” he asks, again.
I slide the slip across to him, pen on top. He draws a little circle, a line through it.
He is proud of himself.