I wandered into a friend’s shop today, a man deep in the guts of some vintage travel trailer, chasing wires through wall cavities like a man possessed. Electricity is pure voodoo to me, so I kept my distance and watched him wrestle a high-tech inverter, a bank of solar panels, and various other contraptions that demanded cable so thick it looked like it belonged on a suspension bridge.
Then I noticed the shears.
Tiny, almost dainty little Knipex bastards, barely bigger than what your grandmother uses at her sewing machine. The man was running them through wire after wire, fat gauge stuff, the kind of cable that that I’d be using my largest dikes on, and they were going through it like warm butter. I couldn’t stay quiet. I had to know.
He didn’t answer. He just grinned the grin of a man who knows something you don’t, and tossed the shears across the bench at me along with a fistful of scrap wire.
Three cuts. That’s all it took. Three cuts on 4 AWG wire and something in my brain clicked permanently into place. I was buying a pair before the fourth piece of scrap hit the floor.
Nobody paid me to say this. Holy shit, buy these things.
Get yours here.
