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The service fee fund allocation lessonI have a theory about the real coming of age that I doubt I’ve share with anyone else. I therefore have two options: share it with you and hopefully inspire you to ponder upon it; or keep it to myself and instead use this space to share some insights I had recently while paging through a book on stamp collecting.
So, the coming of age it is then.
Do you remember the first time you felt like a grown-up? In certain cultures, the shift into adulthood comes with unabashed fanfare.
Think of a bat mitzvah for example, where a Jewish girl is accepted into religious maturity.
In other cultures, it comes with a more reserved but no less important measure of ceremony, such as the circumcision ritual in Xhosa culture.
Sometimes the move into adulthood comes with a step that is not so much an official part of any culture as it is an informal one – but one that is nonetheless considered highly significant. Take for example, a girl’s first bra or, much later, a boy’s ability to first remove said bra with one hand.
These are moments when young people are generally guided into the more glorious moments of adulthood – but what about the more unpleasant moments? And let’s face it, there are many. The reality is that being an adult sometimes really sucks, and the main reasons often orbit around that one horrible word: responsibility.
I remember the first time the responsibility of being an adult dawned on me. I had just got my first car – a Ford Capri – and was revelling in the joys of freedom and student life. I was my own boss (as long as my parents continued to send me money for petrol) and the world of love was opening up for me.
I had met a young lady and invited her out; and, as I later found out, only because I had a car, she agreed.
I had saved my money and made it clear at the beginning of the evening that I would treat her to dinner at a fashionable restaurant – that is, a restaurant that didn’t serve only burgers and cheap beer and that didn’t smell of sweat.
The evening seemed to go well and I turned on my charm, which didn’t really work, but it was when the bill was presented that things really went pear-shaped. I was suddenly faced with the responsibility of calculating a tip for the service.
Maths had never been my strong point, but that wasn’t the problem. No one had ever taken me to one side and explained the intricate protocols of tip allocation.
I looked at the waiter as he smiled at me expectantly, and I suddenly realised that I was, in a way, employing this man, albeit briefly.
An image flashed before me of this man’s family standing behind him, also looking at me expectantly: visions in their minds of their saving for the children’s university fees and maybe, just maybe, a holiday. Everything hung on my decision.
I was gripped in a paralysing paroxysm of indecision: if I didn’t tip him well, I would surely starve his family; but if I was too generous with my meagre savings, I wouldn’t have enough to buy my date a nice after-dinner drink that could be enough, just enough, to find me melting into her arms.
I won’t tell you what happened because my therapist said some things are best left repressed, never to see the light of day.
Suffice to say, parental responsibility ensured that from a very early age, I made sure my children were aware of the emotional, and fiscal, fallout of incorrect service fee fund allocation.
Because, when you think about it, how much you tip a waitron at a restaurant says as much about you as it does about the service. It demands that you make a firm but fair appraisal of a situation; determine the cost of human resources; keep track of the movement of stock; and place an estimated value on the speed and quality of delivery.
In a way, calculating their first-ever tip is, for a young person, their first real business decision; and nothing wakes you up to the unpleasant realities of adult life as the harsh vagaries of the world of business.
All of a sudden, the fitting of that first bra seems a little, well, too operational; and the much later removal of said bra by a young man, too unsustainable a decision to be deemed worthy of their acceptance into the realm of adulthood.
So, if you’re a parent of a young child, perhaps now is the time to take them out for a meal, pass them the bill and then give them a crash course in business management.
Next month: teething your baby on government bonds and credit risk. ?
Daryl Ilbury
