You’re standing there, the weight of the decision a tangible thing in your palm. On one side, a sleek, minimalist package, all sharp lines and understated confidence, promising revolution. It launched, what, 7 months ago? Maybe 17. Its marketing budget probably outstrips the GDP of a small island nation, and its founder has 4.7 million followers. On the other, a product that seems to have materialized from your grandmother’s medicine cabinet, its label a design relic, its story stretching back 107 years, perhaps even 207 years. Logic dictates one, cultural current pulls you towards the other. Why do we consistently gravitate towards the flash, the disruptor, the newborn venture, when a century of proven efficacy sits right beside it?
It’s not just about what’s new; it’s about what we believe ‘new’ represents. Freshness, innovation, a solution to problems we didn’t even know we had until an ad algorithm found them. We confuse ‘disruptive’ with ‘better,’ as if the old ways inherently carry a scent of stagnation, an inability to evolve. Our collective psyche seems to crave the shiny object, the startup saga, the narrative of David triumphing over Goliath, even when Goliath has been quietly, consistently providing genuine value for generations. I caught myself doing it just last week, eyeing a novel kitchen gadget promising to automate 7 different tasks. My existing appliance, 27 years old, still hums along perfectly. I bought the new one anyway. It broke after


















































