Last week, I was looking forward to a break and a haircut, made for Wednesday – the one day I work from home. But on Tuesday, I missed a call and only picked it up later. My brain has been distracted and I didn’t pay attention to confirmation emails. I had made a mistake. The appointment was on Tuesday. My card had been charged the full amount – $150. I immediately called: could I come in at any time that was good for the stylist? Could they split the cost? Could I get a quick cut, not the full shebang? I was met with a firm no. No empathy was to be found. The receptionist said she’d try again and call me back. I wrote an email to the owners. But a phone call never came and the email was never answered.
I am still dwelling, a week later. Yes – the money is annoying and I value that it’s lost, especially to those I believe to be so unkind. But the total lack of empathy or understanding is what really got me down.
And then came JR.
The next morning, I weaved my way through the supermarket, making the most of a short period of time I had early in the morning. I got to the last aisle, full cart ready for checkout, one credit card in my pocket when an announcement came over the loudspeaker. The card system was down. Cash only.
I called my husband but he couldn’t come quickly. I stood there for a moment, frustrated by life when a voice emerged from in front of the peanut butter. A supermarket employee named JR was stocking the shelves and asked quite simply, “do you need some money?”
I think that’s what empathy sounds like. JR, in the peanut butter aisle. He pulled out a $100 dollar bill but upon looking at my cart, offered $50 more. Another $150, less than 24 hours later.
I returned from checking-out with JR’s change and I told him about the haircut, crying my way through, a build-up of sadness from the past difficult weeks. He gave me a hug, I thought I reimbursed the cash into his bank account using my phone, and I left with my heart warmed. The salon wouldn’t get the last word; JR would.
Yet his goodness was only magnified when I realized the following day that the payment hadn’t gone through. Three visits to the supermarket later, cash in his hand, another hug exchanged, he asked if I had gotten my haircut yet. “No,” I replied. “Do you want the money back so you can go get one?,” JR asked.
Overpriced haircuts cost $150. Sometimes contents of grocery carts do, too. But offering empathy costs nothing. I can assure you that the dividends are priceless.
adena the coffee queen 