Today, my coworker called me from outside of the building after experiencing a haircut gone wrong. He was upset and stressed out about how he looked and informed me that he was going home to shave his head. Apparently, an eighty-something year old man with shaky hands took a very sharp set of clippers to his head and in between lopping off his hair, stated, “I need to get a towel.” My coworker said the haircut was the most painful he had ever received.
Trying to calm him, I told him I was sure his hair didn’t look as horrible as he thought. I told him to meet me in the alley at the door and told him I would take him out for a cup of coffee. We hung up.
I decided to viist the ladies room on my way out of the building and much to my utter surprise, I began crying on my way up the hallway. I closed the door behind me and said to myself, “Now THIS is very Chris-like.” and it was.
I was always trying to calm Chris, to take his pain away, even before he got cancer. I liked taking care of him. I felt bad for him when he felt bad. I wanted to make him feel better. Sometimes he didn’t want to feel better, but I always tried. That’s a truth about me: I take responsibility for the emotions of others. I would like to stop doing that.
So there I was in the ladies room, in tears because my coworker, who by the way is the same coworker from before who looks, sounds and behaves a lot like my Creejie, called in a huff to tell me how horrid his hair looked.
Granted, Chris never complained about his hairdo (until he lost his hair) but the flavor of the incident was so Robin-and-Chris that I was brought to tears.
I wish he was here.
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