Every good product starts with a problem. Ours started with several — razor burn, ingrown hairs, overpriced cartridges, and the sinking feeling that the shaving industry had quietly decided “good enough” was the new standard. Spoiler: it wasn’t good enough for me.
So RazorWorks didn’t begin with a logo or a pitch deck. It began with raw aluminum, a stubborn streak, and a machine that definitely wasn’t designed to run as long as I made it run.
If you’ve ever wondered what goes into a RazorWorks razor, here’s the truth:
It starts ugly.
Rough cuts. Sharp edges. Tool marks that look like a toddler took a file to it. Prototype #1 was barely a razor — more like a metal reminder that I had a lot to learn.
Prototype #47 shaved, technically.
Prototype #113 shaved well.
Prototype #268 taught me that tolerances matter more than ego.
Prototype #401… that one made me stop and think, “Alright. We’re onto something.”
That’s the part most people never see — the grind. The hours spent tweaking blade exposure by fractions of a millimeter. The nights spent staring at CAD models until the lines blurred. The mornings spent testing a new design on a face that was already begging for mercy.
But that’s the work that makes a razor perform, not just shave.
And that’s what this series is about.
Not the polished product shots.
Not the marketing fluff.
Just the real process — the metal, the mistakes, the breakthroughs, and the philosophy behind why RazorWorks razors feel different in your hand and on your skin.
If you’ve ever held a tool and thought, “I wonder how this was made,” you’re in the right place. If you’ve ever looked at a disposable razor and thought, “There has to be a better way,” you’re definitely in the right place.
Next week, I’ll break down one of the biggest lessons from those early prototypes — the moment I realized that irritation‑free shaving isn’t magic. It’s mechanics.
Until then, keep your edges clean.
Stay sharp,
Grant