The place smells awful, you need to wash the inside of the washer's and dryer's. Many of the machines are out of service. One of the more expensive do your own laundry laundromat's. There's no bathroom. Almost every time I need quarters the quarter machine is out of order and I'm told to go down the road to the car wash and use their quarter machine. More than once I have put my quarters in the machine that had my load of laundry in it and when I press start nothing happens, I've have left notes about this issue with what washer I attempted to use along with my information hoping so hear back from someone and get a refund, but that doesn't happen. 1 read more

If you need to wash clothes I recommend not coming to Hamilton, washers do not work. Majority of the time have to washers don't wash the clothes no water it's time for a new facility don't come to Hamilton. read more

Honestly Terrible. Less than half the washers are working at any given time, ATM would not give me cash and took forever to even give back my card, both coin machines are constantly out and I've never seen a single person who actually works here. Id rather drive the 30 minutes to the next town to do my laundry than use this place. For a place with less than half working machines, it should not be charging that much for a wash it's robbery. Wish I could give this zero stars it's truly the worst laundromat i've ever been to. read more

I've been rating laundromats as I've travelled cross country in my RV. Currently I'm staying at the Lebanon Reservoir Campground here in Hamilton. Unfortunately, they don't have laundry facilities so I came to town and found the Hamilton Laundromat. This is now my second visit in as many weeks. No need to look further. Machines work well, the place is clean and they offer free WiFi. Not much more to ask for. If you need a place to clean your clothes, this modern facility will do just fine. read more

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Half their washers are out service, some aren't tagged and just take your money. Don't waste your time! There's a appliance store one door down, maybe they can figure out a way to work together read more

As my son was unpacking for his sophomore year at Colgate University, he pulled out bedding material that had been locked away in an off-site storage unit since May. Knowing the smell alone would have brought a plague upon the lovely New York hamlet that he called home from fall to spring, my wife and I quickly closed the windows and bedroom door before contemplating how we would deal with such darkness before we returned to Chicago. "Fire," I suggested. "Fire and burial," my wife countered. But before we could define a strategy, our 19-year-old boy began to spread those foul sheets and blankets out on his bed. "What?" he said, as he looked at our puzzled faces. "They're fine." My wife would later say she saw her entire parenting life flash before her eyes - the care provided to skinned knees, the lullabies hummed after nightmares, the excessive bleaching of sheets and the time that lady at Babies R Us told her SHE would never let HER child scream like that in a store - she saw all of it. She fell to the floor, a broken woman, whimpering words like "failed" and "ashamed." A quick search on my phone revealed the place where I could make things right, a location for rebirth, a sacred space filled with Cheeto-eating bachelors; stoned, apartment-dwelling couples and a small gathering of local ne'er-do-wells who, if nothing else, knew the importance of clean underwear. Upon arriving with a couple of sheets, a few pillowcases and two blankets, I chose two three-load washers for the momentous task at hand. Probably excessive, I know, but I felt each blanket deserved its own space, its own vessel to rid itself of such dread, such horror. After inserting my recently acquired collection of quarters and pre-loading the soap and fabric softener, I took a front-row seat for the show. And what a show it was! Watching those blankets spin through the washing process? Pure art. Claude Monet? Yawn. Jasper Johns? Snore. Jackson Pollock? Whatever. At Hamilton Laundry, I witnessed true passion, art that was alive - a constant flow of water and soap and suds and cotton. It was like watching thousands of hippies wearing nothing but flowers and scarves as they danced in a tie-dyed meadow in the Trix-colored rain. And the dryers? Front-loading wonders. I was mesmerized, like a young child in front of the fish tank at the pediatrician's office, oblivious to the worn-out video of "Barney" playing on the TV above him and blissfully unmoved by the "Highlights Magazine" on the table within arm's reach. This is to say nothing of the aura of Hamilton Laundry, which smelled of youth, optimism and rebirth. It smelled like a simultaneous, oven-door release of thousands of blueberry muffins, offering their aroma to the world en masse. I feared that I would sprout feathered wings and launch into a Willy-Wonka-like world I once dreamed about on a cold and gray day in 1975, when I was knocked unconscious after steering straight into a tree at Caldwell Woods in my new steerable sled. The sounds within this spin-cycle Valhalla know better than to even try to compete with the abundance of sensory offerings. Instead, they were content to exist in the background, layering the silence with a lush audio landscape that thrived because of its simplicity - the whirring of the washing machine as it entered its rinse cycle, the soft plunk of the vending machine as it dispensed a two-load packet of Tide, the Beckett-like cellphone inquiry of "Hey, what's up" from the fatigued six-load customer who just finished his second reading of the Mid-York Weekly. I can't say much about the folding tables. I did not partake. When the bedding material was dry, I simply wrapped the garments around my body and walked back to campus, a modern-day Joseph with his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, only I was playing the role in reverse - the prodigal father, offering his son a brown fleece cloak from Target and a frayed blue quilt that someone must have left in our basement. As I entered my son's room, my wife slowly rose from her dark-spell slumber and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. The blankets, sheets and pillowcases served as celestial smelling salts. She rose and begin to weep. "These blankets, these sheets," she cried. "Who did this? What did this? What mysterious magic is this?" No magic, I told her. "It is a place of purity and truth. You can embrace its magnificence with your arms, drink in its beauty with your eyes, draw in its alluring fragrances through your nose and, thanks to the community bulletin board, tear off the phone number of a guy selling a dented microwave for $10 with your fingers," I said. "It renews the damaged parts in all of us without judgment. And all can pass through its welcoming gates, although the door on the right sticks a little. You just have to give it a hip check." "And what name do the gods give such a place?" she asked. "Hamilton Laundry," I said, collapsing, overcome with emotion. "Its name is Hamilton Laundry." read more

Super clean, fast dryers and that's all I needed. Open at 7 am, easy in and out operation - nice

Advertised free wifi not available. Bathroom door locked so it can't be used by costumers. 4 washing machines with "out of order" signs on them. ATM with "out of order" sign. What works works, but I'd rather go somewhere where I don't have to wait for a working washer, can use the internet, and can go to the bathroom. This place was much better two years back, and it just keeps getting worse! read more