I’ve been shaving with this for a couple of months now. I found it in a jar of random bits and pieces where it had obviously been sitting a long time. It took a bit of cleaning to get the film of grease and dust off it, but once clean it looked almost new again.
It feels incredibly solid. Satisfyingly heavy and perfectly weighted in the hand. I see the problem now with the production lines of the early twentieth century. Once you manufactured and sold one of these to everyone who wanted one, that’s it. They would never need to buy one again, barring losses. Embedding seven razors into a plastic handle was the only way to keep us safe from Communism.
It’s not dangerous, although admittedly I don’t have a lot to deal with. I was expecting it to be, but the delicacy required is more or less equivalent to modern variants. My brother tells me that I only use it because I like “old classic” things. Mostly he’s right.
What surprised me was how easy it is to buy razor-blades. They sell them in supermarkets! I pictured having to call into old-fashioned pharmacies stinking of varnish and TCP. Receiving my parcel wrapped in wax-paper and twine, and picking a few barley sticks from the bell-jar on the way out the door. But apparently there’s some non-heinous use for razor-blades in modern society. What it is I can’t imagine. I’m slightly paranoid when I bring them to the till, half-expecting the woman to ask me what exactly I need them for. “Hiding them in apples to give to children on the street?” she’ll ask. “Or cutting the names of loves lost into the soft skin of your forearms? Either way I’m calling the Gardaí.”