Alec Saunders SquawkBox

Because of the internet, Long Tail markets exist everywhere.  When distance, warehousing and inventory selection problems are solved, markets for physical goods suddenly look very different from the way that they used to.

A striking example of this phenomena is the simple act of shaving.  Virtually all men do it.  Virtually all men buy their shaving products at the local grocery or pharmacist.  Gilette has made a fortune by providing simple, cheap consumables to men the world over.

Some years ago, after trying all the different creams, soaps, and gels on the market, I discovered the secret to a great shave.  Use a brush to lather your face.  Use really hot water.  First, lather and shave in the direction of the whiskers.  Then, lather and shave against the whiskers.  You get a perfect shave every time.

Well, as everyone does at one point or another, I leave things in hotel rooms.  A few months ago, I left my beloved badger bristle shaving brush behind.  No problem, said I, I’ll just go get another at the pharmacy. 

Not so fast.

I guess I’m a dying breed, because neither my grocery, nor my pharmacy carry these items.  But you know, a quick search on eBay turned up hundreds of merchants who’ve not just taken to purveying brushes, but also vast inventories of exotic shaving creams (with appointments to various european courts!), and rasors ranging from the simple cartridge rasors we use today, to safety rasors and wickedly sharp straight rasors.  And brushes?  Did you know you could pay as much as $500 for a shaving brush, if you were so inclined?

I made a purchase from Tones Barber Shop in the UK.  One pure badger brush, a travel tube of Taylor of Old Bond Street Sandalwood Shaving Cream, and a tub of Taylor of Old Bond Street Almond Shaving Cream.  It’s heavenly. 

Thank goodness for long tails, and shaving brushes.

I’m sitting in Boston at the moment, after a full day of meetings, and reflecting on a disturbing incident this morning.   Here’s what happened. 

Howard and I grabbed a 6:25 AM flight from Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport in Montreal down to Boston.  We camped at the Rodeway Inn (a desparate place, if I ever saw one) last night, across the street from the airport, got up at 4:15 AM, and made it to the airport at about 5:15 AM.

Everything was going great until we realized in the security line (after having passed through US customs and immigration) that I had taken the wrong bag from the car.  We have two identical bags.  One was packed with the computers for our presentations and demos in Boston, and the other was packed with Howard’s dirty laundry.  I had Howard’s clothes… not the computers.

Security would not let me leave the zone as I was now technically on American soil; an artifact of the relationships that Canadian airports have with US airlines.  They informed me I would have to clear the security line, find an Air Canada agent in the secure zone, and have that agent escort me to Canadian customs and immigration, whereupon I could “re-enter” Canada, collect my bag, and then re-clear US customs and immigration, and security again.

After a 15 minute search for an Air Canada agent in Dorval’s secure zone I finally found someone who buzzed me through the security door to Canadian customs and immigration.  Because she was also boarding passengers she was unable to escort me, so I entered the immigration zone alone.  In fact, she didn’t even check my boarding pass to see if my story checked out.  She radioed her superiors that I was on my way, and buzzed me into the immigration zone. 

When I reached passport control a few minutes later, there were probably 25 stations, and not an agent in sight.

The janitor, sweeping the floor, advised me to take the stairs down, and speak with customs. I walked unchallenged through passport control, and downstairs to the customs area. It was a ghost town as well. 

I continued to walk unchallenged.  I walked through the baggage claim. I walked through the customs area.  I walked through the baggage inspection area.  I walked past the empty desk of the guard who collects your declaration form.  Finally, I walked out into the arrivals area, where I met a security guard and explained what I had done and asked if she would please call customs for me. Ten minutes later, a border agent appeared, checked my passport and escorted me out.

So, let’s review.  The Canadian border at Montreal was completely devoid of officials.  I walked right on through and could likely have walked past the security guard, and out of the airport.  What if I had been really trying to enter the country illegally?  Would I have been tracked down from security camera images?  Could I have left the airport?