Illustration by Martha Rich

An ode.


By Cynthia McVay

I was at the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, New York. It’s an annual event, and for me an annual ritual. In years past, I bought reams of unspun wool, which I use as pillows; that day, I was focused on sheep and goat milk soap. I had already bought a half dozen bars, and I was sniffing my way through more, each wrapped in patterned paper and love. Peppermint. Licorice. Jasmine. Lavender. I couldn’t narrow it down, so I bought all of them. I reasoned they make good gifts. I couldn’t resist a paper bag full of slender tan soap squares perfect for the Airbnb cottage. Soap is one thing I buy without guilt.

Soap reflects what we value and, I submit, is a metaphor for how we approach life, whether the bar is common or extraordinary, branded, fragrant, creamy, or clear, just as a restaurant’s crusty bread and home-whipped butter gives us a hint of the kitchen. Local, homespun soap—which reveals a lot about me—is one of the first things I give a friend who doesn’t think about it much, maybe prioritizes convenience and value and stocks his bathroom with a half-dozen Lever 2000s, seduced by a Sam’s Club deal.

An embossed name or telltale original shape obscures over time, as the bar’s employment, its journey, and imposed contours, overtake its provenance. A sink dweller cinches at the waist. A bar that lives in the shower is gentle and rounded. Perhaps it has one flattened corner—evidence of slipping from hands or the bathtub’s curved edge, careening onto the hard tile floor. Whether it lives in the shower’s direct spray in its own juices—a soap soup—or near an open window where it has a chance to dry between uses, reflects its owner’s attentions, thoughtfulness, and commitment to its longevity. Deep cracks indicate that it’s been a while since the outdoor shower or guest bathroom was used. I consign such a bar—along with mini, half-used soaps I’ve brought home from hotels or leftover from my Airbnb guests—to the kitchen sink. I try to get every wash from chips and fragments by gluing them onto larger bars with a gooey, soapy mortar. As a guest in someone else’s home, I worry about soap dishes offering new, crisp soap. Where do the slightly used go?

A worn bar of soap is a small sculpture, crafted by its user, rolled and turned in wet hands. A byproduct of a grooming ritual, a bar of soap is a window into the psyche and etiquette of the lathered. Like an ancient stone staircase or wooden banister, a bar of soap is an artifact of time and process and touch, molded by a person or pod of people.

When soap is shared, its character is diluted by multiple, frequent wettings or varied cleansing strategies. The way a bar of soap is treated may become a source of friction for a couple or among roommates. A hair, of any kind, demeans and demotes a bar of soap, renders it untouchable. Living mostly alone, the bar in my soap dish is a direct product of my own handling.

An unsung hero in the invention lineup, soap is taken for granted and has been cast aside by a myriad of inferior substitutes. But the humble bar of soap, in breaking down dirt and oils lifted away under running water, is in part responsible for our survival as a species. Most of us spent more time washing our hands during the pandemic (contemplating doing so, reading about it, weighing the pros and cons of alternative sanitation methods) than over the course of the rest of our lives. We counted to 20. We sang Happy Birthday. Or not. Truth be told, I washed my hands a little more than usual in 2020 but find 20 seconds to be a very long time. (Separately, in an informal survey, it turns out few of us wash behind our ears.)

Like how we eat our corn or what we do with our napkin at the end of the meal, the shape and condition of our bar soap says something about us, how we spend our intimate moments, in our own nakedness—when (generally) no one else is looking. Our soap has been up close with our private parts and crevices.

Bar soap is personal and revealing. There’s a tinge of vulnerability in a naked bar sitting in a soap dish. Perhaps this explains why many choose liquid soap, with a buttoned up, built-in standoffish-ness.

I resist, easily. Aside from the benefits of its notable intimacy and tactility—the complete experience that bar soap offers—it wins hands down for environmental reasons. The key ingredient of liquid soap is water—scarce, heavy, and bulky, requiring energy to produce, package and transport. In addition, most body washes have synthetic, non-biodegradable ingredients. The bar soap I buy has fewer, cleaner, locally sourced ingredients that biodegrade. Bar soap comes in infinite varieties to address allergies, sensitivities, chapped hands, and acne.

The plastic bottle of body wash or liquid soap will end up in a landfill on a good day, or the ocean (and in the belly of a whale) on a bad one. According to Reduce Plastic Waste, an estimated 250 million Americans buy some 1.4 billion bottles a year. The calculus may be different for public restrooms where liquid soap is bought in bulk and dispensed in permanent vessels, and there’s a lot of people passing through. Buying liquid soap can make sense if bought in volume, from a local refillery, filling a refillable container.


Although soap was originally made from animal fats, most are now derived from botanical or nut-based oils—coconut, palm, almond, avocado, and essential oils such as lemon, lavender, and rose, and infused with floral or herbal aromas. No matter how efficient the process of packaged goods companies, carbon and toxic waste inherent in centralized large-scale production, packaging, and logistics—and cheap labor—is part of their equation. It might be a bargain for them, but not for this earth.

In a moment of weakness, I purchased liquid soap for guests at the start of the pandemic, believing for an instant non-science nonsense circulating that liquid soap was more sanitary. As the extra careful and paranoid avoided touching things—all things—they certainly stopped fondling soap in other people’s dishes.

Soap—dry, solid, and unbreakable—makes for easy transport. A handmade bar may cost more than one made by a large corporation; a friend suggests that it may be out of reach for some. I submit it is a matter of priorities. The extra annual cost amounts to less than a couple beers, what many drink in bottled water or soda in a day, a single pedicure or small tattoo. And, for me, is an essential luxury.

I store a fragrant bar in my underwear drawer until I need a fresh one. And when I do, with tenderness, I unwrap the paper, and a memory or two.

Cynthia McVay G’88 WG’88 is an artist, writer, rower and author of A Field of My Own: A Memoir of Place, from which this essay is drawn.


Share Button

    Related Posts

    The Campus Controversy Complex
    Shelf by Shelf
    Diploma

    Leave a Reply