Our Story
I grew up in New York until I was eight years old. Then we moved to Pennsylvania. Section 8 housing. Government assistance. The kind of childhood where you learn early that money isn't just tight — it's nonexistent.
We didn't go on vacations. We didn't eat out. We didn't do the things other families did. And as a kid, you don't fully understand why. You just know that the answer to most things is "we can't afford it."
You learn to stop asking.
The Moment That Changed Everything
When I got to high school, something shifted. I'd always been the short, heavy kid. But I started growing. I thinned out. And for the first time, I actually had a real shot at making the basketball team.
So I went to my mom and my grandmother and asked for $60 to sign up.
Sixty dollars.
They looked at me and told me they didn't have it.
Not "maybe next month." Not "let's figure it out." They just didn't have it. Because that was our reality. Sixty dollars might as well have been six thousand.
So that year, I played rec ball instead. And when my friends asked me why I wasn't on the team — why I wasn't out there playing for the school — I lied.
I told them I didn't really want to play for the team. That it seemed too much like a job. That rec was more fun.
But the truth is, I was embarrassed. I was ashamed. And I remember standing there, making up that excuse, feeling it burn in my chest. That feeling of having to pretend you don't want something because you can't afford it.
I still remember that moment like it was yesterday.
And I made a decision right there.
I told myself that I was going to work my ass off so that my future family would never — ever — have to worry about $60 again.
The Tattoo
I got "$60" tattooed on my body as a permanent reminder.
Not because I'm stuck in that moment. Because I refuse to forget it.
Every time I see it, I remember what it felt like to not have enough. I remember the lie I told my friends. And I remember the promise I made to myself.
That tattoo isn't about poverty. It's about standards. It's a line in the sand that says: I will never settle for less than what I'm capable of building.
The Build
That moment set me on a path. About five years ago, something clicked and I started building. Not just working — building. Creating things. Launching projects. Learning what it takes to actually bet on yourself.
And here's what I learned fast: when you're building something of your own, you can't afford to be a lesser version of yourself. Nobody's going to carry you. Nobody's going to clock you in. The discipline, the standards, the work ethic — it all has to come from within.
So I started leveling up. Every area. How I showed up. How I thought. How I spent my time. What I consumed. What I tolerated.
I became obsessed with operating at a higher level — not because someone told me to, but because I realized the life I wanted demanded it.
The Bathroom
Then one day, I thought I'd reached the peak. I was in a good rhythm. Disciplined. Focused. Grinding.
And I walked into my bathroom.
I picked up the soap I'd been using for years. Flipped it over. And actually read the back.
I couldn't pronounce half the ingredients. Words I'd never seen before. Chemical compounds that looked like they belonged in a lab, not on my skin. And this was the stuff I was putting on my body every single day.
I started reading everything. The body wash. The deodorant. The shampoo. It was all the same — long ingredient lists full of things I couldn't identify, made by companies that clearly didn't care what they were putting in the bottle as long as it was cheap to produce.
I'd spent all this time leveling up my mindset, my discipline, my standards — and the most basic products I used every day were garbage.
That didn't sit right with me.
The Search
So I went looking. I wanted to find a men's brand that matched the standard I was holding myself to. Something with real ingredients. Something that felt intentional. Something premium — not just in price, but in purpose.
And I couldn't find it.
Every natural brand I found was either marketed like it was made in someone's garage, or it was so far in the "wellness" space that it didn't feel like it was built for men like me. Men who are building. Men who take their craft seriously. Men who care about what they put on their body because they care about how they show up.
Nothing spoke to me.
So I built it myself.
Pure60
Pure60 exists because of a $60 basketball fee I couldn't afford and a bathroom full of products that didn't meet my standards.
The name carries everything I believe in. Pure — because what you put on your body should be clean, intentional, and real. 60 — because that number is permanently etched into my skin as a reminder to never settle.
This brand is for the man who's building something. The man who refuses to cut corners — not in his work, not in his relationships, and not in the products he uses every single day.
We make premium men's essentials with ingredients you can actually read. Grass-fed beef tallow. Essential oils. Activated charcoal. No fillers. No shortcuts. No BS.
Because the products you use every day should reflect the standards you hold yourself to.
This Is Just The Beginning
Pure60 started with soap. But it won't end there.
The vision is simple: a man should be able to walk into his bathroom and have every product on the counter come from a brand that actually gives a damn. A brand built on real ingredients, real standards, and a real story.
That's what we're building. And we're just getting started.
Your standards brought you here. Now raise the bar on what you put on your body.