About six or seven years ago we left the city and bought
a
house far out in the British countryside. I always fancied
myself with a sizeable plot of land, a meadow full of
goats
(or maybe even alpaca), wild rabbits happily frolicking
amongst the gardenia, the odd pheasant wandering
through
the long grass. It was a romantic vision.
The reality is meadow land, and particularly lawn,
requires
a fair bit of maintenance. Thankfully the goats (and
alpaca) never materialised, but the rabbits are in
abundance and we had to stop feeding the pheasants for
they brought their friends, and they theirs, for tea and
soon we had a sizeable 'herd' that left small deposits
upon the
patio in thanks.
For every weekend that it wasn't raining (and many
where
it was) I would find myself spending several hours
walking
back and forth, back and forth, forcing forward the
mechanical gnawing beast that would carve
immaculately
neat stripes into the grass. I would carry heavy baskets
of
fresh clippings (inexplicably with the aroma of banana)
to
the compost heap where they would pile higher and
higher
as the season progressed. I would pour fresh petrol into
the
animal's throat when it was thirsty and wrestle wet
clumps
of grass from its jammed teeth when it overfed. It was in
many ways enjoyable, especially in the spring where the
midges had not yet hatched, the sun was not too hot
and the gentle breezes would keep one's brow
cool.
In the spring I could just about keep on top of it: my two
or
three hours a weekend would be enough to suppress the
growth. But come summer the grass would shoot up in
defiance and each weekend I would target a different
spot,
only to find the areas I had covered the previous week
returned to their prior state. It was a battle of wills and,
it
transpires, the grass has more will than I.
Last year I finally caved. I had wanted a compact tractor
but instead we bought a robot. The robot now happily
wanders the lawn nibbling, ever-so-slightly, upon the
blades and fronds. The grass is finally defeated and I
suddenly have time to actually enjoy the space with my
children. The robot is pretty stupid: from what I can tell
it
wanders in the direction it is facing until it encounters
an
obstacle, at which point it turns to face a new way and
carries on merrily with its chore. Despite this lack of
intelligence
the coverage is actually impressive and the lawn looks
fantastic, though devoid of fancy stripes.
This ability to defeat the huge swathes of grass with
continuous small cuts where I would fail with concerted
chopping got me thinking when I was last shaving my
head.
Could I not have a similar (though obviously much
smaller)
mower upon my scalp, wandering my head like a rover
upon a small planet, nibbling at the hairs upon my head
as I go about my business as normal?
Obviously there are a few technical hurdles to overcome:
there would obviously have to be boundaries as I am
quite
keen on my eyebrows and eye-lashes, though I would be
happy for it to take care of my chin. I certainly would
not want
such a micro-machine lost in the tunnels of my nose
chomping away lobes of my brain as I sleep or, worse,
wandering down my body to get stuck into my
nether regions.
Whereas my lawn mower will return to its home base in
the corner of the garden to recharge when it tires, a
phrenological mower would not have this option. Perhaps
inductive charging could be integrated within a pillow or
hat. Technical hurdles can be overcome and they must
for
the market is almost unbounded, for who would not want
a
robot razor upon their head? Not even Rapunzel, I'm
sure,
could resist.