The hour, in order
We do not start with a stroke thought. We start with a clean hosel and a still toe. The putting stroke arrives after the number is honest, because Charleston humidity will argue with any story you brought from a dry indoor carpet.
Grit in the bore fakes hang. We wipe the neck, note the grip family, and ask whether you have been putting on morning poa or afternoon bermuda. The humidity cabinet gives us today’s harbor moisture so the slip is dated, not eternal.
The head goes on the hook. We wait until the toe stops hunting — rushing this is how shops invent a number. Then a silhouette against the degree card. Graphite, not marker. That number is the start of the hour, not the product.
We rake the carpet toward the Cooper or the Ashley, depending on which nine you actually play. You roll a dozen putts. We watch whether the hang invites the path or fights it. Face-balance golfers with a strong arc show up here, not on the rail photo.
If we change tape, a pistol, or a half-inch of length, the head goes back on the hook. Length and hanging mass are not free. The second photograph is the one that leaves with you.
Hang degrees, rest versus dangle, humidity, grain window, and whether the arc wanted more toe or less. No launch-screen printout. A graphite sheet that will still make sense in August when the salt is louder.
What we refuse
Hang is not loft. Opening a face with a bending bar because the toe looked shy is how blades get ruined. If the hang is wrong for the arc, we change hanging mass, length, or the head family — not the loft stamp.
Read the rates before you claim the hour so the clock is not a surprise. Gift hangs follow the same order; we will not skip the photograph because someone else paid.