For every endearing fan there must be the devil or his advocate.
American blades may be everything described above: tough, dependable, fine steel that takes a keen edge. But all that I have used and all to have passed through my hands have been lacking in 'soul'. None have had that immeasurable quality that made me want to pick them up for a second shave right after the first, none have lured me to gaze on them for hours, none make me jealous or anxious when another keen shaver picks them up.
Perhaps that attached feeling is built on a foundation of connection with a place, its land and resources. Perhaps it's built on a relationship with the people or their industry and craftsmanship. I don't for one moment question American craftsmen or their ability to fuse utility with art - to paraphrase another writer above, America's razors, its motor vehicles, its apple pie, its women, its film - all are fantastic.
But there's still something missing - something exotic, some mysterious flair, a deep and dark subliminal layer that can't quite be explained or valued. Something beyond the motor, something more than a tan and beautiful blonde hair, something more than great steel.
It's that soul, that character which shines through, glowing from even the darkest corner of the antiques store, calling out from behind the glass and weathered coffin and layers of patina... It's there that I have yet to find an American blade.
I hope to one day be proved wrong.
