Du Placey's Barber Shop

Feb 2025

I went into this barbershop terrified because I am a gay woman, needing a fade for a show I was doing. Now there is only 2 chairs in the shop so I was even more nervous because a man getting a straight shave was in the first chair. When I walked in I asked if they cut womans hair. He said yes of course come in sit here. It was the owner. He chatted with me and made me feel really good. Much better then when I walked in terrified. I walked out a very happy customer. It is a great local non franchised barbershop. They treated me like anyone else (even tho he said I was the first woman’s cut he has ever done. I have been going there ever since. They are closed Sunday...read full review

Jun 2024

First time there today and I gotta say for $20 plus tip this is the place to go! Hair looks great and they were thorough and clean. Wish I had grabbed the barbers name as I'll ask for him again

Feb 2024

I have always struggled finding a barber that can cut hair well. Finding this barbershop was a total life saver. In fact I wrote a poem on it. "Du Placey's Song" In the heart of Hamilton, where the sun kisses the streets, Lies a haven for tousled souls seeking a trim so neat. Du Placey's Barber Shop, oh, what tales it weaves, Where blades whisper secrets and combs gently tease. Mr. Brown, the master of this cozy domain, Wields his shears with grace, like a seasoned refrain. His hands, swift as swallows, sculpt hair into art, Each snip a stroke of magic, a symphony's part. The worn leather chairs cradle patrons with care, As they wait their turn, lost in magazines' glare. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday unfold, The shop hums with stories, both young and old. The mirror reflects dreams, laughter, and strife, As Mr. Brown spins his tales of a well-lived life. He trims away worries, unruly strands of doubt, And leaves behind confidence--a crown without clout. Saturday mornings witness the bustling crowd, From businessmen to poets, their heads held proud. The scent of aftershave mingles with old-school charm, As Du Placey's weaves memories, stitch by stitch, warm. And what of the owl perched high on the shelf? A silent observer, wise beyond measure, himself. "Who stuffed that white owl?" the youth once inquired, As Mr. Brown shaved, unruffled, and never tired. "An owl cannot roost with limbs unloosed," he declared, "No owl in this world had claws curled or bill canted." The owl, with a wink, hooted, as if to say, "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway." So here's to Du Placey's, where scissors compose, Where hair becomes poetry, and time gently slows. May your fades be crisp, your sideburns divine, And may Mr. Brown keep shaving, one tale at a time.