A Barber, a War, My Crown: Refuge in a TLV Haircut

As a Black man raised on the South Side of Chicago, I was taught early that a haircut isn’t just grooming; it’s sacred. My hair is my crown. And not everyone should be trusted to touch it.

Where I’m from, finding a barber is like finding a doctor, a therapist, and an elder all in one. You stay loyal. You don’t take risks. Especially not with someone who doesn’t understand your hair texture or worse, doesn’t respect the person sitting in their chair because of how they look.

So when I left the U.S. and started traveling the world; spending months at a time in places like rural Greece, provincial Belgium, and remote parts of the Mediterranean; I learned quickly that finding a proper barber was no small feat. I’ve had my fair share of bad experiences: botched fades, uneven line-ups, confused glances. One time, I left the chair looking like a before photo.

That all changed when I landed in Tel Aviv.

A friend recommended a barber I had visited earlier in the year, who had recently opened his own private shop in northern Tel Aviv called The Hair Salon 262. I knew from firsthand experience that the cuts were clean, the price was fair, and the barber? The real deal.

I showed up on a humid afternoon, expecting a standard cut. What I found was a sanctuary; opened by Assaf, just two days before the start of the 12-Day War with Iran.

Let that sink in.

On June 10, 2025, while the region teetered on the edge of a multifront war, Assaf unlocked the door to his new shop for the first time. Rockets would begin raining down on cities across Israel within 48 hours. Sirens would scream daily. People would scramble for shelter. Businesses would shutter. But Assaf kept cutting.

“There’s no perfect time,” he told me. “But there are important times. And this felt like one of them.”

He ran the shop during the war; half-days, mostly, rushing to shelters with his clients whenever the sirens went off. No electricity? No problem. Limited hours? He made them count. Even amid destruction, Assaf insisted on offering restoration one haircut at a time.

Assaf’s journey to barbering began when he was 17, cutting hair for friends and family on weekends. He formalized his training at 23 and got his first professional job in the Golan Heights, where he honed his craft cutting the hair of soldiers, tourists, and locals alike.

“Entrepreneurship is the highest form of freedom,” he said with quiet certainty. “It was always my goal to have my own place, where I could create something real.”

When I asked why he chose that particular Tel Aviv neighborhood, he smiled. “I wanted somewhere real gritty, diverse, full of life and contradictions. This area has tourists, hipsters, reservists, migrants, families, artists. It reflects the kind of clients I want to serve.”

Haircuts at The Hair Salon 262 go beyond the blade. In the aftermath of war, as people grieve lost homes, lost friends, and lost stability, Assaf sees his shop as more than a business; it’s a refuge.

He keeps his prices low 50 NIS, nearly unheard of in Tel Aviv; to make sure everyone feels welcome: tourists, locals, displaced families, soldiers returning from the front lines.

“People don’t come just to look better,” he said. “They come to feel better.”

I felt that too. Sitting in his chair, I didn’t have to explain my hair. I didn’t have to worry whether he’d understand my texture. Assaf worked with skill, confidence, and care. And for the first time in weeks, I felt seen.

“I can’t always describe it,” he said, “but something happens when a person sees themselves in the mirror again. After war. After chaos. They see proof that they’re still standing.”

And in that moment just for a little while they get to breathe.

For Assaf, offering haircuts during wartime isn’t just survival; it’s defiance.

“Looking good, feeling confident, feeling human, that’s powerful,” he said. “It’s a way of saying, ‘I’m still here. You didn’t break me.’”

In a small shop tucked between a bakery and a tattoo parlor, resistance lives in the ordinary. It hums through the clippers. It rises with the scent of coffee. It plays from the speakers; Seattle soul music, Assaf’s personal favorite, a subtle nod to his love of Pacific Northwest vibes.

This is Tel Aviv. This is the Middle East. This is the new normal; where healing doesn’t come from headlines, but from human connection.

As a Black American traveler, I’ve carried my hair as a source of pride, vulnerability, and identity. It’s been a mirror of my mood, a marker of my culture, a quiet rebellion in spaces that weren’t always built for me.

In Tel Aviv, in the middle of a war, I found a barber who understood that instinctively.

And that’s no small thing.

So yes, Assaf gives a great fade. But more than that, he gives people back their reflection, their rhythm, their dignity.

And in these times, that’s revolutionary.

The Hair Salon 262 is located on Dizengoff 262, haircuts are only 50 NIS, and more details can be found here https://lee.co.il/b/vG12i