A barbershop should feel like somewhere you forgot you were going.
We opened in a narrow room with one chair, two pairs of shears, and a stubborn belief: that a haircut is the last small ceremony a man gets in his week.
No screens at the chair. No music loud enough to talk over. The towel is steamed. The blade is honed before each visit. The straight razor has a name; we won't tell you what it is.
What you'll find here is unhurried. Forty-five minutes for a cut. An hour for a shave. We schedule the same way a tailor takes measurements — patiently, and only once.



