By Rifan Muazin 
Barber loyalty is a phenomenon that has been documented in both sociological studies and the anecdotal corridors of internet forums like Reddit’s r/AskMen, where the question of whether to "stay or go" is debated with the gravity of a legal separation. For me, this loyalty was inherited. Growing up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, the barber chair was a family tradition. My father, my brother, and I all frequented the same Italian barber, Mario, for a tenure that spanned decades. As I grew older and began to explore the city’s vast landscape on my own, I found a new anchor at Astor Place Hairstylists, a legendary New York institution that has served everyone from Andy Warhol to the city’s punk rockers since 1947. There, I waited for Benny. The rules were simple: if Benny was in his chair, I was getting a cut. If he wasn’t, I went home. To experiment with a new barber felt like a reckless gamble. A bad meal is forgotten by the next morning, but a bad haircut is a public failure that haunts your reflection for weeks.
However, moving to a new borough and entering a new chapter of my life complicated this steadfast tradition. In 2015, I was not just moving to Astoria; I was navigating the complexities of being newly out, living independently, and attempting to define what kind of gay man I wanted to be. My initial attempts at grooming in Queens were guided by my former roommate, Mike. He led me to his preferred shop, where a talented Spanish barber began carving a "hard part" into my hair with a straight razor. At the time, I was convinced it was the pinnacle of style. Years later, looking back at the photographic evidence, I can say with certainty that those images are better off buried in the digital graveyard of an old hard drive.
The turning point came via Scruff. For the uninitiated, Scruff is often described as the slightly more refined, "bear-adjacent" cousin of Grindr. It is a digital grid of nearby men, ranging from hairy outdoorsmen to the ubiquitous headless torsos, most of whom are logged on with very specific, sex-related intentions. It was within this digital marketplace of desire that I encountered another Sean. The fact that we shared a name—spelled the same way—felt like a cosmic omen of trustworthiness. He was handsome, bearded, slightly taller than me, and possessed a smile that lacked the predatory edge often found on dating apps. We flirted, and as someone still fresh to the queer dating scene, every notification felt like a validation of my new identity. But instead of the expected request for explicit photos, Sean offered something far more practical: a haircut.
At the time, Sean was working at Otis & Finn in Long Island City. Founded as an LGBTQIA-owned and operated barbershop, Otis & Finn was designed to be a "third place"—a sociological term coined by Ray Oldenburg to describe social surroundings separate from the two usual environments of home ("first place") and work ("second place"). For the queer community, such spaces are vital, providing a safe haven where grooming isn’t just about aesthetics, but about identity and belonging. The prospect of meeting a man from a hookup app in the sterile light of day for a professional service was initially mortifying. I worried about the social friction of sitting in his chair for forty minutes while we both pretended we hadn’t been chatting on a platform designed for sexual encounters.
"It’s always sketchy meeting someone online for a ‘professional’ service," Sean recalls of our first encounter. He was acutely aware of the dual nature of our meeting, but his professional instincts took over. In a shop where a straight man might be in the chair to his left and a lesbian to his right, the boundaries of the barbershop environment dictated a different kind of intimacy. As I sat down, the flirtation evaporated, replaced by a burgeoning friendship. Sean realized quickly that I wasn’t looking for a hookup; I was looking for a confidant and a craftsman.
The quality of the cut was undeniable, but it was the conversation that turned me into a devotee. I began making the two-mile trek from Astoria to Long Island City every two weeks with religious punctuality. My hair, which has a tendency to "puff out" on the sides, became the catalyst for a decade-long dialogue. Sean was an apprentice in 2018 when we met, balancing his chair time with a 9-to-5 job. He had originally considered a career in therapy, but the prospect of years of unpaid clinical hours led him to barbering—a profession that, in many ways, is therapy’s more tactile sibling. Behind the chair, he could listen to people’s lives while simultaneously making them look better.
Our relationship weathered the most tumultuous period in recent New York history: the COVID-19 pandemic. I remember getting a haircut just as the world began to shutter, sitting as the only client in the shop while the city held its breath. When the lockdown officially descended, my hair became a "puffed-out, tangled mess," and my beard devolved into a multi-colored, patchy disaster. Throughout the isolation, Sean and I remained connected through memes and digital dating post-mortems. He even attempted to talk me through a DIY haircut—instructions that involved "taking it up to the line with a half or one"—which I found as incomprehensible as flight manuals for a Boeing 747. I told him I was suffering from "haircut separation anxiety," and he was equally adamant about our reunion. "Your name better be the first fucking one," he told me as reopening neared. "Do not disappoint me."
When the city finally began to stir in June 2020, returning to his chair—now at a new Otis & Finn location in Court Square—felt like a reclamation of my humanity. I showed up in a tie-dye crop top and a face mask, vibrating with excitement. Over the following years, I followed Sean as his career evolved. When he left the shop to cut hair out of his apartment, I followed. When he moved to Hell’s Kitchen, I followed. Finally, in 2024, he opened his own shop, Pretty Dapper. I am now his "favorite customer," booking appointments weeks in advance with the frantic energy of someone seeking a specialist for a rare condition.
The physical proximity of barbering creates a unique psychological space. As Dipesh Patel, LCSW, explains, the "side-by-side" nature of the haircut allows for a closeness that isn’t as confrontational as direct eye contact. This routine, repeated over nearly a decade, has created what Patel calls a "social biography." Sean has seen me through job losses, financial struggles—during which he quietly waived his fees—and my transformation into a fitness enthusiast. He has heard the exhaustive history of every man I’ve dated, categorized by traits or geography: "Jersey City Will," "Little Bo Peep," and the infamous "Iverson." He can read my mood from the first "Hello," knowing whether he needs to "strap in and hunt someone down" or celebrate a good two weeks.
While I have a professional therapist, Josh, for deep psychological work, Sean provides what he calls "actual friendship advice." There is a distinct value in both. As Patel notes, a barber offers perspective and emotional relief, while a therapist facilitates deeper psychological change. For Sean, the trust is a heavy responsibility. After nine hours of emotional and physical labor, he often returns home with "zero percent battery," having given more of himself to his clients than he has left for his own partner. He maintains a strict code of silence, protecting the secrets of his chair with the same rigor as a confessional.
The fact that we are both gay men adds a layer of "cultural fluency" to our bond. I don’t have to explain why a haircut before a specific date feels like a high-stakes operation, or translate the nuances of a confusing text from a man I met at a bar. We speak the same language of identity and grooming. Sean has navigated me through every aesthetic era: the blond phases, the silver "Danny Phantom" moment, and the near-catastrophic decision to get a buzz cut that would have clashed violently with my head shape. He even gifted me my first high-quality blow dryer, a tool I didn’t realize was essential until he forced it upon me.
Looking back, Sean’s biggest observation is my growth in confidence. "When I met you, you still hadn’t really found who you were," he says. "You now know who you are, what your current limits are, and you also know your worth." This evolution is mirrored in the products that have become staples of my routine, items that Sean has vetted and recommended over the years. To maintain the look we’ve perfected, I’ve integrated high-performance products like the Daimon Barber Texture Tonic and Texture Spray for that effortless NYC volume. For days when my hair needs more structural integrity, the Daimon Barber Original Pomade provides a natural-feeling hold. I’ve also embraced the Ouai Thickening & Volume Spray and Mizani True Textures Curl Enhancing Hair Cream to manage the "puffs" that Sean has spent years taming. And because a good cut starts with healthy hair, the Verb Hydrate Shampoo + Conditioner Jumbo Set has become a non-negotiable part of my shower ritual.
Theoretically, I could find another competent barber in a city of eight million people. But as Dipesh Patel points out, replacing the feeling of being understood is far more difficult than finding a good fade. Sean remembers what I was going through when I wanted to change my hair, and he knows which version of me is walking through his door before I even sit down. What began as a potential hookup on a digital grid nine years ago has transformed into the longest and most consistent relationship of my life. It is a testament to the fact that in the queer community, connections often shift and evolve into something far more meaningful than their original intent. I already have my next appointment booked, because some bonds—and some hairlines—are too important to leave to chance.
