We're Jake and Sam.
For the best part of twenty years, the two of us lived in pressed shirts different companies, same uniform, same quiet dread every Sunday night. We never hated the shirt. We hated what it cost us: the time, the attention, the board in the corner that turned every weekend into a chore we'd put off until it was the last thing standing between us and Monday.
For Jake, it got sharper after his marriage ended the shirts that used to "just get sorted" suddenly didn't, and he found himself at 11pm wondering why, in this day and age, a grown man still had to fight a collar by hand. So we built the machine we both wished we'd had years ago. Hang the shirt. Press one button. Walk away.
