CAIRO—Much of Egypt is under an all-night curfew. An emergency law, the hallmark of a nearly 30-year dictatorship, has resumed, sweeping hundreds of people into detention. Television news channels have rebranded the military's ouster of the nation's first freely elected president as a fight against terrorism.

But while the Arab world's most-populous nation is showing early signs of drifting back toward military-backed autocracy—less than three years after massive protests helped unseat strongman Hosni Mubarak—the moves so far have come with the blessing of many of its citizens.

"I feel like I can take a breath without worrying if the next one will ever come," said Reda Ashraf, a 36-year-old barber who lives in Cairo's Kit Kat neighborhood. "If it takes the Army to return Egypt to normal, I'll support it."

The Egyptian military's ouster of Mohammed Morsi's Islamist government this summer brought on the worst violence in the country's modern history, culminating last month when a government crackdown on the fallen leader's supporters left more than 1,000 people dead and led to worries that the country was on a path to total chaos.

Instead, a remarkable calm has emerged, with the capital returning to the rhythms of life that defined it before January 2011. For many Egyptians, the ideals of the revolution that felled Mr. Mubarak and brought Mr. Morsi to power no longer square with their desire to live without the daily interruptions caused by street marches and political gridlock that has contributed to a steep economic decline.

Banks have reopened, long lines at gas stations have all but disappeared, electricity outages are far fewer and people have returned to daily work routines. Police are more visible, attempting to direct Cairo's unruly traffic.

For Mr. Ashraf, who once feared the repressive state security apparatus, the sight of a police patrol no longer startles him.

"I don't know what happened, but instead of a slap on the back of the neck, these guys are smiling at me," he said on a recent late afternoon, while sitting at a sidewalk cafe in his working-class neighborhood. The father of three can't pinpoint how his life has improved since Mr. Morsi's removal. It is a feeling, he said, that his stalled prospects will improve under a military-backed government he views as "competent and experienced."

For nearly three years, Mr. Ashraf hasn't worked consecutive days, he said. The 10 Egyptians pounds he charges for a haircut—about $1.50—doesn't always cover the 25 pounds he must pay to rent a barber's chair at the local shop. He works only if he can arrange for his regular customers to show up on the same day or two.

"These days, people don't mind looking unkempt if it keeps a little money in their pocket," he said. "That doesn't help me and this is the only craft I know."

To make up the difference, he looks for odd jobs in small construction projects and with moving companies. "It is backbreaking and humiliating," he said.

The curfew imposed by the military-backed government, which runs from the late evening to 6 a.m., has helped push weddings to daylight hours, providing work for Mr. Ashraf, who helps erect large tents for outdoor receptions. Participating in a happy event, he said, gives him some pleasure.

In Cairo's more upscale precincts, residents said they feel newly confident walking the streets. Cairo's relatively wealthy residents, who as a group prospered under Mr. Mubarak and grudgingly accepted the outcome of the 2011 uprising, now proudly hold the June 30 protests that preceded Mr. Morsi's ouster in July as Egypt's defining revolution.

"The Muslim Brotherhood wasn't just a political party, it was a terrorist group…and they were leading the country on a dangerous route," said Iman Saleh El Sehai, a mother of two grown daughters who works at the Belgian Embassy.

Speaking after buying two handcrafted pieces of jewelry from the Azza Fahmy, a boutique in Cairo's fashionable Zamalek neighborhood, Ms. El Sehai said outings like these weren't routine for her just last month. She didn't feel safe in the street and the uncertainty of the economy didn't allow for frivolous spending.

She "felt the society was becoming so closed and that we were losing our personal freedoms," she said, speaking in French, her preferred language for serious conversations. She said she believes that Mr. Morsi's year in office did more damage than Mr. Mubarak's nearly 30 years ruling Egypt.

"When living under the Brotherhood, it was very normal to feel unsafe in the streets and worry that someone might come up to me to harass me, or even hurt me because my hair wasn't covered. And I'm Muslim," she said, adding that life is now more like it was before. "We go out to visit our friends. We go to the restaurants we used to go to."

When it comes to the curfew, Ms. El Sehai sees a fringe benefit.

"We don't mind at all that the curfew is forcing our girls to be back home a little earlier every night," she laughed.

The emerging status quo has been a stunning fall for supporters of Mr. Morsi, who say the "terrorist" label has been used to justify a politically motivated crackdown on a group that won popular elections. After police cleared two massive camps supporting Mr. Morsi—killing nearly 400 people, according to a count by Human Rights Watch—demonstrations have waned significantly and daily life has become an uneasy mixture of fear and resignation.

Mohammed, a 38-year-old engineer who lives in New Cairo and adheres to a conservative vision of Islam, has trimmed his long beard into a neat goatee to avoid drawing suspicion at the many police and military checkpoints that dot the city.

At work—where his visits earlier in the summer to Rabaa Al Adawiya, the largest of the pro-Morsi camps, were well known and the subject of arguments at the office—he keeps to himself, no longer joining colleagues for lunch and tea breaks.

As much as he avoids people, he feels people are avoiding him.

"It is uncomfortable when everyone you associate with at work genuinely believes you support terrorists," said Mohammed, who asked that his full name not be used out of fear of publicly criticizing the government.

"I'm waiting for a knock on my door from police who will arrest me for my activities at Rabaa," he said. "I'm still in shock at how quickly my life has changed."