We are asked to leave a tip everywhere nowadays
- Scott Daniels: We Ate Well and Cheaply
- April 21, 2023
- 729
Every profession has its trade publication, and if you were in the men’s hat business once upon a time, that publication was Hat Life.
As early as the postwar 1940s, an article appeared in that magazine asking why men were buying fewer and fewer hats. It’s a common misconception President Kennedy killed off hats for men because he didn’t wear one. This is false, as there are numerous photographs of him carrying and wearing a fedora or, at his inauguration, a fine silk topper.
The wearing of hats declined among men for several practical reasons. Among them: cars were designed to be lower and more sleek, knocking the dumb thing off your head when getting in and out.
Buildings were increasingly climate controlled, obviating the need for headwear. If you went anywhere, you had to find someplace to put your hat, which may be the biggest contributor of all.
The “Hat Life” article posed the idea that hat sales were thinning because hats were an expensive nuisance — not the hats themselves, but the unending expense of hat ownership.
Everywhere one went, there was a hat check stand, a stopping point where you could drop off your hat while you shopped, ate any meal, saw a movie, got your hair cut or shopped for a low, sleek, new car. Hat check concessions were a prime business, and competition was stiff.
Everywhere a poor fellow went, there was someone at the door with their hand out for a nickel, dime or quarter tip. At a time when you could see a movie and get a burger and a Coke afterward for less than $3 total, that added up to a lot of money in a given month.
In short, hat check greed killed the golden egg laying goose. It took more than 50 years for sales of men’s brimmed hats to regain any kind of ground at all.
Fast forward to the post-COVID world we live in, and I think you see where I am going here. There’s even a term for it for our age, “tip shaming.”
You pop in for a quick coffee on the way to work, which is a rather pricey thing to do anyway. You make your selection, designate any extra pumps of syrup and how much foam, and brace yourself to pony up $6 or more for your cuppa joe. Then the counter person swings the pay screen around and asks you for a tip. Because I carry more routine guilt than a medium-sized American community, I see only shame.
“How much are ya tipping, sir? 15%? 20? 25? Or are you going to choose ‘no tip,’ Diamond Jim Brady?”
I am not made of strong enough stuff to decline a tip while the barista is looking plaintively into my eyes, and I don’t want this kid to think I’m a cheapskate, even though I am. I wish I had more of Scrooge in me, but I just can’t. I usually select the next-to-bottom choice and spin the thing back.
Tips were once the purview of wait staff at restaurants, who are paid way below minimum wage but are expected to be attentive and smooth. You tip the porter at a hotel, your barber or hairdresser, your cabbie and now your Doordasher. It’s a means of saying an extra thank you to folks who provide a service.
We are asked to tip everywhere now, and we are made to feel shame if we don’t. Handing me a latte through the window doesn’t strike me as tip worthy. I would love to get an extra five spot for every piece I write and submit, but that’s foolishness. I’m sure you’d love to get a little extra cash every time you meet the description of your job’s responsibilities.
I suppose it’s not really the request for a tip that is so pervasively galling, but the way in which it preys upon our subconscious guilt. There are people behind you, waiting. We feel their judging gaze over our shoulder. Or perhaps, they’re hoping we will be the one to choose “no tip,” so they feel free to do the same.
Please don’t swing that screen around at me. Please don’t present me with a payment handheld that asks how much I want to tip. Or I swear I’m gonna stop wearing hats.