There is another conspiracy.
Well, there's another sub-conspiracy within the broader global conspiracy.
This time though, it's close to home. Or, at least, close to your face, or legs, or, er, well. It's close.
It's an excuse for advertising featuring jet planes, svelte women and men rubbing their chins to release the genie of the bedroom.
Yes, it's the razor. Something so humble as a knife you scrape over your skin, but a knife that has improved in some small way every year for at least a century. Each one, slightly better than the last model. Each time, fewer little hairs on your chinny-chin-chin. But why? And how?
It's all, at the base of it (and as any decent conspiracy must be), really very simple. Back in the long lost whenever, the boffins at Wilkson and Gillette created the design for the perfect razor and -- and here is the devious part -- realised that they could approach through an infinite number of stages. Since then, the design department hasn't had to do much more than chose the colour of the shaft, and the dimensions of the lady on the adverts. They simply crank another step on their equations and out pops this year's model.
They could, if they wanted, release the final razor today (and what a razor it would be -- thirty blades hovering on nano-lasers moving in twelve dimensions accompanied by a thousand symphonies), but they won't do that. They know they've hundreds of years and countless products ready for the profits. And they know you'll always be happy with a better razor than yesterday.
