It was while standing in front of the bathroom mirror the other morning, razor in hand, that I found myself mulling over the curious contradictions of my career. Perhaps it’s a little eccentric to be philosophising while lathered up with shaving cream, but then again, most of my semi-formed thoughts seem to come either mid-run or mid-shave. On this particular morning, I found myself thinking about authenticity, or more precisely, the lack of it, or my perception of its lack, in the world of technology.
For the better part of two decades, I worked primarily in Silicon Valley. It’s a place where ideas, ambition and caffeine fuel extraordinary feats, but also where bravado and spin are as common as Teslas on the 101. Since giving up that lark and immersing myself back here in New Zealand, I’ve often been guilty of characterising the Valley as an ecosystem steeped in artifice. The pitch decks polished to a blinding shine, the founders selling visions of a future that felt more like a hallucination than a plan, the endless parade of conferences where everyone seemed to wear the same hoodie and speak the same language of disruption.
But as I dragged the razor down my cheek, I realised I may have been a little too sweeping in those judgements. Just because some of Silicon Valley is a circus doesn’t mean everyone under the big top is a clown.
The razor in my hand was proof of that.
About fifteen years ago, while writing for Forbes, I went looking for razor blades online. Anyone who has bought razor blades at the supermarket will understand why: a small fortune for a bit of steel and plastic sealed in packaging that seems more secure than a prison cell. My search led me to a fledgling company called Harry’s, promising German precision blades at a price that didn’t require a second mortgage. It seemed refreshingly straightforward. Until, of course, I discovered that New Zealand wasn’t even on their shipping map. We were, once again, the forgotten bottom corner of the globe.
Frustrated, I did what any columnist with a deadline does: I wrote about it. I bemoaned the way e-commerce players spoke about global reach while ignoring markets that didn’t fit neatly into a spreadsheet. It wasn’t an angry screed, more a weary sigh from someone who had seen this pattern too often.
To my surprise, a few days later, I received a message from Jeff Raider, one of Harry’s co-founders. Instead of a canned PR apology, Jeff sent a thoughtful note. He offered to send me some blades and, more importantly, he wanted to talk. He wanted to understand why being excluded from a supposedly global service felt so frustrating, and he was genuinely interested in the perspective of someone outside the cosy US bubble.
Jeff didn’t fit the Silicon Valley archetype I had come to expect. He wasn’t a hoodie-wearing coder with a penchant for jargon. He was based in New York, came across as polished and measured, and carried himself more like a thoughtful retailer than a breathless disruptor. Of course, that made sense when I learned he had also co-founded Warby Parker, the eyewear brand that upended how people buy glasses. This was a man who understood that consumers aren’t just data points but people with quirks, frustrations and wallets.
Over the years, we’ve exchanged the odd email, and from time to time, a package of blades has made its way to my mailbox. I should confess I may not be the most unbiased commentator, given that my smooth chin is occasionally sponsored by Jeff’s generosity. But even factoring in that bias, the relationship has always felt genuine. There’s no slick sales patter, no attempt to pull me into some brand-ambassador scheme. Just a founder who seemed to care about building something useful and being decent while doing it.
And that’s where my earlier reflections come back into play. When I rail against the lack of authenticity in the high-growth start-up ecosystem, I’m really railing against a certain style of behaviour: the relentless hype, the obsession with valuation over value, the belief that every problem must be solved by an app and a billion dollars. But authenticity isn’t defined by geography. You can find it in a San Francisco garage, in a New York loft, or in a Wellington co-working space. Just as you can find its opposite anywhere that people mistake spin for substance.
As I rinsed the razor and felt the familiar smoothness on my cheek, I realised that my complaint had never really been about technology or business models. It was about people. About how easy it is to lump everyone together and miss the individuals quietly going about their work with care and thoughtfulness. Jeff, with his blades and his glasses, reminded me that there are plenty of founders who don’t fit the stereotype, who build with integrity and who are happy to have a genuine conversation with a grumpy columnist half a world away.
So perhaps next time I feel tempted to dismiss the Silicon Valley model as a harbinger of inauthenticity, I’ll remember the man who sent me razor blades. The one who, intentionally or not, gave me smoother skin and a smoother perspective. Because if there’s one thing shaving teaches you, it’s that a little sharpness, applied carefully, can actually help you see things more clearly.
