in the realm of whispers and echoes, where the clippers seem unreachable and the laughter of barbers from ages past still lingers, there exists a command, ancient as the cobwebbed mirrors, urging one to start over. this directive, imbued in the very walls, is not a curse but a gentle decline from the despair of imperfection. it tells a tale of shears that never dull and chairs that welcome ages of patrons, with skills and kindness pre-installed in the hearts of those who wield the combs and scissors.