Panagiotis Pattas, born in Gargalianoi, Messinia, knows what it means to fight for survival. Orphaned by his father at age 9 and by his mother at 16, he was forced to leave school and find work.
“I left school to learn barbering so our family could survive. I didn’t know anything else,” he tells Neos Kosmos.
Barbering wasn’t a random choice—his uncle took him in and trained him. By 1950, in a town that had 17 barbershops, Panagiotis had already worked in 11. “That’s why I became good. I learned from the best. It’s the only job I’ve ever had. This year marks 75 years,” he says with pride.
From Gargalianoi to Melbourne
Despite growing up in poverty with five siblings, Pattas was never broken by hardship. He worked in Athens until 1960, when he received a migration invitation from his sister in Australia.
“I came with a loaned ticket, a borrowed suit, and 3,300 drachmas from my sister to buy out my military service so I could get a passport,” he recalls.
On 15 August 1960, he arrived in Melbourne on the Patris and began working not in a barbershop, but at the “Peloponnese” café on Lonsdale Street—then the heart of Greek Melbourne. On weekends, however, he cut hair in a local barbershop, slowly rebuilding his craft and reputation.
A family, a business, a dream
In 1962, he married Georgia, a match arranged the traditional way, and settled in Northcote where their first son, Christos, was born. Soon after, he opened his own barbershop across from St. John’s Church in North Carlton.
“We had five or six families living in the house to help pay the mortgage,” he says. “I always owed the bank. That was my goal—to become an investor.”
Every cent he made went back into the business or into building something greater. He even dabbled briefly in factory work before realizing, “It wasn’t for me. But I was never afraid of work. I said, ‘I’ll work hard and I’ll make it.'”
Passing on the craft
In 1980, Pattas began working at Myer, where he not only cut hair but trained new barbers.
“I taught them how to hold scissors—not just how to cut, but how to respect the customer. It’s all in the detail.”
In 2000, a health scare forced him to take a long pause. But after the pandemic, nearly 20 years later, he reopened his shop—now in Frankston—not out of necessity, but because he couldn’t sit still.
“I can’t stay at home. I need to work.”
He still wears a tie every day. “That’s my uniform. My sign of dignity,” he says with a laugh, proudly admitting he owns a wardrobe full of them.
Work as dignity
“For my father, barbering isn’t just a job—it’s who he is,” says Christos. “We know that work gives him a sense of independence and purpose. If he didn’t work, his health wouldn’t be what it is.”
Every day, Pattas wakes at 7.20am, walks to the bus stop from his home in Safety Beach, and is at the barbershop by 8. He works until 6, returning home by 7. He does this seven days a week.
He beams with joy when he mentions his five grandchildren. “One of my biggest joys was when Christos’ son started getting haircuts from me,” he smiles. “And he gets proper ones too!”
A barbershop of quiet respect
There isn’t much chatter in Pattas’ barbershop. Not because he’s unfriendly, but because he respects his clients’ time.
“I don’t like to talk while I’m cutting. Talking slows you down. People are waiting.”
Most of his clients are elderly now—people who appreciate the quiet dignity of an old-school barbershop. Some of his long-time customers have passed on, and he remembers them with a hint of sadness.
Behind every great barber
His wife, Georgia, has been his quiet partner all along—raising their children, working in the family gift shop, and managing the home. She also raises chickens and donates the proceeds—up to €3,000 annually—from their eggs to a girls’ orphanage in Crete.
“They always worked together,” says Christos. “And though it strengthened their bond, it also caused tension at times. Now, they’ve found their balance—dad with his barbershop and politics, mum with her garden and her chickens.”
Bold, independent, and still dreaming
Last year, Panagiotis travelled to Greece—on his own. He booked the ticket without telling anyone. “I want to go again,” he says with the excitement of a child.
His dream is to build a monument in his village honouring the victims of the Civil War, including his godmother. Last year, he travelled across the Peloponnese by bus to begin the process. “He doesn’t want to depend on anyone—not even us,” says Christos.
“I’ll work until I’m 100”
Now 91, Pattas has no plans to slow down.
“I don’t mind working until I’m 100,” he says with determination. “I want to see my grandchildren marry. Maybe meet my great-grandchildren. Until then, I’ll keep working.”
Work, for him, is not just survival. It is life. “He doesn’t take off his tie—it’s part of who he is,” Christos says. “Even if we find a younger barber to help him, he won’t quit. It’s in him.”
Three generations of Pattas
Panagiotis, his son Christos, and grandson Peter—three generations, one legacy.
As he closes the barbershop for the evening, he cleans his scissors, hangs his apron, turns off the light, and locks the door. Georgia awaits him at home with warm food and recorded news from around the world.
“Tomorrow again,” he whispers, walking slowly, steadily, to the bus stop.
Photo: Supplied
