A hairy with Harry

Just one of the reasons I love living in the Slurry is Theo's.

Theo, from Thessaloniki, is the local barber and somewhat of a Surry Hills institution. The walls are lined with alternating photos of ancient Greece and not so ancient bikini clad models. The radio is always on, and always tuned to 2CH Easy 1170 'Sydney's easy listening station' (Elvis, Lulu and Dean Martin feature highly in the playlist). And in the corner there's usually a couple of old greek fogeys who seem to use Theo's as a sort of club house and refuge from their wives during the day.

No appointments are made, no bookings kept. One simply rocks up, takes note of your place in the line and steps up as appropriate. While waiting one might flick through one of the 'gentleman's magazines' or just kick back and rock out to 2CH. There is no idle banter to interrupt the music. Words are not needed at Theo's.

Theo doesn't ask what you would like done today - he has one cut. Like it or leave. No one asks the price. It's $15. It might change one day. But I doubt it as such a change would require each customer be made aware of the new price and all this talk would interrupt the zen like nature of the place.

And the zazen of Theo's should not be interrupted lightly.

That is why I had a great deal of trepidation about taking HP with me for a haircut today. As unless he is sleeping Harry doesn't usually sit quietly for long periods of time without something to entertain him. But I was told, in no uncertain terms, that a haircut was required and today was the day.

The experience started poorly. I arrived with the entourage, tied the dog up out the front and muscled the pram inside. Theo is not effusive but I'm enough of a regular to garner a welcoming grunt. Usually.

Today I got a look like I'd just brought an ET in for a short back and sides. If looks could talk his fairly screamed 'what are you doing with the child? The child should be with the mother. At home. Or anywhere. Just not in my shop.'

But Ros had spoken. The hair must be cut. Today. So I persisted.

We were third in line and Harry was pretty relaxed. He seemed to be enjoying the new sights and sounds and I'm not sure if it was his calm nature or just the melodic radio in the background but I started to relax, started to believe this might all go smoothly.

Time ticked by, the radio played on and soon enough it was my turn. Into the pram with Harry and into the chair for me.

At this point things could have taken a considerable step for the worse. Harry wasn't thrilled with me disappearing and had no qualms about letting us know. But up stepped Old Fogey 1. Clearly a grandfather of many years standing he reached into the pram pulled Harry out and he and Harry began talking. I have no idea of the topic. OF1 was talking in Greek and Harry in Goo Gaa. But they both seemed to enjoy it.

When Harry showed signs of diminishing interest, well began yelling to tell the truth, Old Fogey 2, clearly less expert in matters toddler but very enthusiastic, produced the largest set of keys I've ever seen and jangled them madly in Harry's face. It stopped the yelling but Theo wasn't happy with the racket and a couple of harshly muttered words of Greek were enough to get the keys pocketed.

Into the breach stepped Old Fogey 3 who began reading his magazine to Harry. It was an FHM magazine featuring Jennifer Love Hewitt. I'm not sure that Harry was following the story but he paid rapt attention to the pictures. So much so that he proceed to rip the pages out of the magazine.

Theo was finishing up now, and I was preparing myself to be politely asked not to return. But Theo's classier than that. He just quietly murmured 'Your little boy had fun...so did my boys'.