Meet the Real Santas

Kids in the town of Panguitch, Utah (pop. 1,600), have a name for Tom Hartsfield: Santa. Hartsfield encourages it, telling them he lives in Utah because it's too cold to stay at the North Pole year round. He'll even invite them to tug his beard if they seem doubtful. When they discover that the white whiskers are real, they tend to give him "sort of a shocked look," he says. "The real beard makes them believe more."

Hartsfield is founder of the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas, a national group based in Riverside, Calif. The group got its start in 1994 after a bunch of Kris Kringle look-alikes met while filming a commercial and then decided to keep on meeting. Today more than 1,000 men--most of them big, bewhiskered and jolly--are in the order's database.

It's easy to see why looking like Santa could be an asset this month, as they ho-ho-ho their way through private parties, malls, hospitals and day-care centers. But what kind of red-blooded American male wants to look like Santa all year round?

Timothy Connaghan does, and he knows a sleighful of others like him. He also knows why. As executive director of the order, he surveyed more than 300 members in conjunction with their first national convention, held in Branson, Mo., in July. Among the questions he posed to his fellow Santas: How many years have you been wearing the red suit? (Answer: 12, on average.) How many children do you greet during a typical holiday season? (An average of 5,318.) What does Santa drive? (Pickups are the top ride; 14% also have a motorcycle.)

Most of the men decided to become Santa just because they liked the idea; about 40% got hooked when relatives or co-workers asked them to do the honors at a party or event. One reason they stayed with it is the excited reaction from kids, even when off duty or off season.

When children see Robert Torres at restaurants, "I'll make eye contact and wave," says the Santa from Lake Forest, Calif. "They'll hide behind the booth, and it becomes a game." Torres was spotted by kids when visiting a small village in Mexico with no electricity. The kids, Huichol Indians, yelled "Santa!" then followed him, giggling, as if he had been the Pied Piper.

And it's not only kids who get excited. Tim Mack of Belt, Mont., was on his way to the convention this year when he took a break at a truck stop. After the usual eager kids, two women approached, and Mack told them a funny story. Charmed, they asked whether Santa always went around trying to pick up women. Mack's wife Dana, nearby, had a ready reply. "Santa," she confirmed, "is just a chick magnet."

Some of the Santas are retirees who play the role for joy and extra income ($8,000 to $12,000 on average for roughly 30 to 40 days of work.) Others moonlight while pursuing professions ranging from landscaper to doctor.

There's an ethnic and racial range as well. Torres, who is Hispanic, can chat with naughty or nice kids in both English and Spanish. And the order has a number of black members, including Dion Sinclair of Atlanta. When Sinclair was on duty at the mall, white parents sometimes requested "the other Santa," while other local families waited in line for him. Young children don't seem to care much about Santa's skin color, he says. "For kids, it's about the guy bringing me toys."