I went to my long-time barber the other day.
I did not have his phone number, so I asked for it.
As I was saving it on my mobile, I asked for his surname.
“John… and your surname?”
He looked at me with perfect seriousness:
“Barber.”
“No, your actual surname.”
“Of Seville… the Barber of Seville.”
We both burst out laughing.
Only after a bit more friendly pressure did he give me his real surname.
But beyond the little comedy sketch, there is a truth.
Many people prefer to be known by just two things: their first name and their trade.
John the barber.
Mike the mechanic.
Sarah the baker.
For them, nothing more is needed.
Their bond with clients is built on familiarity, the easy “mate”, the trust that comes from years of routine conversations over scissors and shampoo.
The job becomes almost a second surname.
Yet social life is larger than the shop where we work.
And surnames matter: they define us, distinguish us, anchor us.
They allow us to say “Good morning, Mr Smith” rather than the awkward “Good morning, Mr John”, which somehow cancels out the courtesy and nudges everyone towards first-name terms.
That is why I prefer using surnames.
When I greet someone, I like to say “Good morning, Mr Smith.”
It is a gesture of respect.
If I say “Mr John”, the “Mr” becomes pointless, the “mate” becomes inevitable, and I lose the chance to honour the person in front of me with the most natural courtesy our language offers.
In an age where everyone wants to be on first-name terms, remembering surnames is a quiet way to remember something else as well: the dignity of the people we meet.