The Holiday Spirit

Something truly unusual happened this past weekend; I was able to give my barber a Christmas tip.

Sheer happenstance, as it turns out; if I had stopped in a little earlier or a little later, a total stranger would have cut my hair. Instead, I ended up with the same barber who has cut my hair at least three times in a row—the one who always sits me down and asks, “What can I do for you?” and I have to avoid responding with something ironic like, “world peace and a gin and tonic” or the screamingly obvious, “Cut my hair.” But this has made him memorable and earned him a couple extra quid, which I would not have given to the other guy. Cutting my hair one time does not give you the right to expect a Christmas bonus.

This got me thinking: I haven’t handed out many Christmas tips since moving to England. Time was, I knew my paperboy and my mailman, I had a regular barber and, believe it or not, a maid. All of these people got a little something extra around the holidays. It was a nice tradition, and one I would willingly continue if only I could.

Since moving here, however, I have not met my paperboy, I have no idea who my mail carrier is (and if I did track him down, giving him a tip would not be the first thing on my mind) and there seems to be some sort of law about commoners hiring domestic staff. This is not an indictment of British society but more of a comment on our modern way of life.

In our quest for convenience and instant gratification we have shoved aside social interaction. Chitchat with the butcher takes time, and hearing about his daughter’s new baby or telling him how your son is doing at college doesn’t increase your net worth. In fact, going to the butcher in the first place is a waste of time, which is why there are so few butchers and why most of us pick up our meat in shrink-wrapped packages or from an nameless teenager working behind the deli counter in Sainsbury’s.

Our modern culture seems to promote anonymity and discourage continuity. The shops in our town come and go with alarming frequency. The aforementioned barbershop I have been patronizing for the past year and a half has changed hands three times, and it is not unusual to find an entirely new staff each time I visit. My bus drivers are familiar enough, but there are a baker’s dozen of them and they rotate on a daily basis. Should I tip them all or just the lucky guy who happens to drive me home on Christmas Eve? And do you actually tip bus drivers? I never had one in the States, and I can’t image anyone in England would expect a tip.

For familiarity and continuity, you can’t beat your local pub, but even they are not exempt. You might stop into your favorite pub for a pint and banter with the bartender only to find the comforting oak interior has been stripped and replaced with pine paneling and the inglenook fireplace converted to house a plasma TV. And when you return the following week, it will be a Bistro.

Everything is done for me by people I never see. The lawns are mowed, the hallways cleaned (not very often, I might add) by people who sneak in and out unseen, the various shops I frequent are staffed by recent high-school graduates who are there one time and gone the next and I have yet to see the same doctor. All this leaves me nostalgic for a familiar face and a hand to shake and say, "Thanks for everything, have a Merry Christmas!" and lead to my desperate tip to a barber I have only seen four times.

I think the world is a sadder and lonelier place for it, but it does save a lot of money.