Chris had suggested a swim in the surf before breakfast so at 06.45 we strolled into town to do that. The day before we had enjoyed coffee at a tiny “hole in the wall’ place on the beachfront. The young fellow who owned it really worked hard and was justifiably proud of his coffees. He had explained that the Ethiopian blend he was offering, while good was still slightly sweet but he was working on getting that out of it. As a tea drinker it is all mumbo jumbo to a Philistine like me but he was earnest and Chris, who has actually attended a barista course recommended it. The coffee was good yesterday, but we had been in a hurry. This time we had time to savour the coffee, and the décor which was upturned milk crates with wooden tops for tables and wooden box like ply structures for chairs. He had been open six weeks, and the place was packed. This is especially gratifying given the literally hundreds of cafes along the front here. He only served coffee, although he had branched out a couple of days before into fruit toast. A daring move, but as his focus was the espresso machine, he sold the slice of bread, and the patron had to put it in the toaster themselves. Brilliant!
Two cups of coffee each later and the swim was not looking nearly so appealing. Postponed, Chris went back to potter on his boat, and I went looking for a haircut.
A simple task you might think, but it appears not in Moololaba. I walked the streets for more than two hours looking for a Men's Barber. Ladies Hair stylist? Thousands of them. Wax and polish? No problem. Skin rejuvenation? Spray tans? Moololaba is one huge metropolis of coffee shops and pampering parlours. However, for feral yachties who just want a hair cut life is not so easy. I had given up. My feet were aching, the sun was too hot, and I had walked up and down every street in Mooloolaba so many times that the local shop keepers were looking at me as if I were up to no good. Our barista from this morning had waived at me three times now looked away as I trudged dejectedly past a fourth time when suddenly I saw a red and white banner. Tucked away down an alley, invisible to all but the dedicated seeker was a sign that said “Barber”. Feeling like David Attenborough finally discovering the considered extinct Greater Breasted Booby, I cautiously approached. Indeed it was the elusive “Barber”. And it was shut.
A sign on the door said “Back in 15 minutes”. Some hope perhaps but 15 minutes from when? I chose one of the cafes that flanked The Barber and having purchased far inferior coffee to that which my new palate was now accustomed, I staked out my hide and waited for The Barber to appear. The wait seemed eternal but was probably no longer than ten minutes when a young girl who I though was just another member of the passing tourist throng suddenly left the promenade, and producing a key from some hidden pocket in her clothes, placed it in the lock, opened the door and was inside with the door closed behind her. It happened so fast that had I not been watching closely I would have missed it. However I quickly crossed the few feet between my table and the door to The Barbers saloon and, trying to alarm The Barber, slipped inside. Indeed what a Barbers shop rewarded me! There were mirrors, chairs, scissors, razors, clippers. All the accoutrements of a genuine Barber. The Barber looked shocked to find someone here but I had come so far I was not being denied now. I sat in the chair and said in a voice which sounded more confident that I felt, “Can you cut my hair please? Now?” The Barber, realising I meant her no harm, smiled and in a Kiwi accent said she would give it a go.
Thirty minutes later and $20 dollars lighter I left The Barbers and walked back to the marina. Of course I passed another Barber on the way, equally well concealed down an alleyway but I didn’t care. I had found a Mens Barber, I had accomplished my mission and surely an invitation to join the National Geographical Society would follow in the mail.
Rona returned from her business about 4.30. Debbie, and old friend of mine who now lives on the
brought her family down to the boat. Last time I saw her daughter Juliet she was about 3. She and her brother are now about 8 years older and the pair were a real credit to Deb. We enjoyed prawns and wine on Dreamagic before visiting the local Pizza place for dinner. I met Debbie when she owned the Sunshine Coast in Yorkeys Knob so we had taken our own resident pizza gourmet with us. The meal certainly wasn't up to the standard set in thosedays at Yorkeys Knob, but we had a very pleasant evening wandering down Amnesia Lane. Pizza Palace