Cultural blind spot
They say ignorance is bliss—too bad it isn’t a permanent condition. When I complained to my co-workers about a recent hair cut, I had no inkling that my comforting fog of ignorance was about to dissolve in a corrosive cloud of rude awakening.
“So I got my hair cut today,” I said, leaning back in my office chair. “I thought it would be around 35 bucks, but those bastards charged me 66.”
“Ouch,” said the business manager. “So how much did you tip?”
“Tip?” I asked, incredulously. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “So you didn’t tip?” he asked in disbelief.
“Uh, no,” I said, as if he were mad. “Why would I?”
Suddenly, I felt all eyes in the room upon me. I sensed that something was wrong. Very wrong.
One of my co-workers spoke up. “Glen—don’t you know that you’re supposed to tip hairdressers?”
“Fuck off,” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Oh my god!” screamed another of my co-workers, clutching her face in embarrassment.
They weren’t kidding.
“You’re supposed to tip hairdressers?!” I shouted. “Oh, shit!”
At that moment, my world came crashing down. And a lot of things finally started to make sense. I had always wondered why hairdressers were so unhappy to see me go. They would be all roses and sunshine during the procedure, but then they’d often turn cold as I was leaving. On a couple of memorable occasions, they were even rude. It was conspicuous, to the point where I wondered what the hell was wrong with these people.
Now I knew. The problem wasn’t them. It was me. With each hair payment, I was mounting a brutal and cowardly assault on hairdressers and their very way of life—and I didn’t even know it.
Ouch. This, dear reader, is a classic example of a “cultural blind spot.” We all have a few. One way or another, we all somehow miss out on certain bits of common knowledge. And believe me, when you find out you’ve got a cultural blind spot, you feel very strange. Like the universe has been plotting against you.
My mind reeled, trying to find meaning in this senseless catastrophe. How the hell could I have been born and raised and lived more than a quarter-century in this society, not to mention sitting though hundreds of hair cuts, and yet not have learned, somewhere along the line, that hairdressers expect to be tipped? How?
Like any rational person, my first impulse was to search for someone to blame. Someone must be responsible for this screw-up, and it sure as hell isn’t me.
It must be my mother.
Yes, she’s the one. She organized and funded all of my childhood hair cuts. My formative ideas of hair cut etiquette came from her. And she—bless her frugal heart—doesn’t tip hairdressers. Either that, or she made damn sure that I don’t know she does. Damn you, mummy! Damn yooooou!
And now that I think about it, this isn’t the first cultural blind spot I have my dear mother to thank for. Let’s wind the clock back to my first year at university—the year everything changed. I can still remember the fateful night I walked into the dormitory kitchen, and found one of my floor-mates sitting down to a plate of strange, pale, leathery objects.
“What are those?” I asked. He looked at me as if I were mad.
“Um, perogies,” he said.
“Oh.” I said. “Wow.” Somewhere deep in my memory, a connection was made. Long before, I had vaguely heard of this food called the “perogy.” But I had never actually seen one until now.
My floor-mate pointed at his beverage. “This is milk,” he said.
My mother doesn’t like perogies, you see. Thanks to her, perogies never darkened the doorstep of our house. So I lived the first eighteen years of my life having never seen one. Now, ironically enough, they are one of my favourite meals. That traitor!
Back to my current dilemma. I suppose I should start tipping hairdressers now. But after a lifetime of not tipping hairdressers, and feeling no obligation whatsoever to tip hairdressers, it’s going to feel weird. Forced. Unnatural. When I go up to the till and hand over a little extra, I’m going to feel like I’m giving them some sort of illegal bribe.
Then there’s the other fear. If I’ve been oblivious to hairdresser tipping for so long, is there anyone else I’m missing? Should I tell supermarket cashiers to keep the change? Should I stuff bills in the briefs of bus drivers? Should I slip a few beavers to my urologist? And what about dentists? Good God, if we start tipping hairdressers, where will it end?
I shall conclude with a poignant moment of karmic payback.
To my mother: I unreservedly condemn your actions in keeping me ignorant of hairdresser tipping, and denying me the joys of perogies throughout my young life. And I condemn you in advance for any future revelations of my personal ignorance that can be traced back to you.
To all the barbers, hairstylists, hairdressers, hair designers, and anyone else in the hair industry I have slighted: I unreservedly apologize for my actions. I would track you all down and give you belated tips, if most of you hadn’t given me such shitty hair cuts. •
Originally published in The Peak, October 1 2001.
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Personal e-mail received from readers, October 2001:
Hey, this isn’t so much a cultural blind spot as a domestic blind spot, but something happened to me today that reminded me of your article.
I have lived in my apartment for three months. This morning during breakfast I looked up and noticed for the first time that we have a dishwasher. Weird. Anyway, I thought you might want to know.
By the way, I tip hairdressers and always have. Love, Mum.
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