Gen Z thinks solid soap is for old people. I’m not having a bar of it

If I had to name some of the greatest man-made inventions, bar soap would easily be in my top ten (honourable mentions for vanilla Coke, noodles, shoes and crosswords).

Yes, I’m talking about solid soap – those hunks of scented lye and oil humans have been using for centuries to slough away a hard day’s work.

It was recently brought to my attention that Gen Z thinks bar soap is gross and for old people. So, as a lifelong “barhead” or “barbie” (I’m still deciding on a noun –“soapies”? “soapsexuals”?), I feel it is my duty to get up on my soapbox and preach the gospel of the humble soap bar.

The first assertion – that bar soap is unhygienic – I’m not even going to bother entertaining. It’s not (just Google it), but I suspect some of this dirty rap comes from an image problem.

We’ve all been confronted by a parched cake of soap (probably Imperial Leather), draped with a mystery hair, in an acquaintance’s shower. This I would argue is a user issue, and nothing at all to do with the poor neglected soap itself.

But the second – that solid soap is elderly fodder – particularly lathers me up the wrong way.

“Bar soap is giving Victorian child”, “bar soap reminds me of my grandparents”: I’ve heard them all. Each time I feel compelled to wash out the mouths that utter such drivel and simply reply, “and?”.

Not only is this belief laden with ageism (what’s wrong with smelling like your grandma?), but I think there’s something quite lovely in knowing my nightly shower ritual is not all too different to that of my ancestors.

The earliest recorded mention of soap, for those who were wondering, dates back over 5000 years to Mesopotamia, Egypt, Ancient Greece and Rome. Though this recipe, using ash and fat from cooking meat, is a far cry from modern soap.

In a world where our beauty routines have become crammed with retinols, peptides and acids sure to melt the rosy cheeks off a Victorian child, I enjoy indulging in this simple, soapy tether to the past.

Speaking of the past, I encourage anyone with an interest in design, typography or antiques to wander down a rabbit hole of vintage soaps on eBay and Etsy. Here one can find all manner of beautiful relics, like quaint branded hotel soaps from the 1920s, this Christian Dior pink soap travel case or this Wallace & Gromit soap on a rope.

The alternative to solid soap, of course, is body wash. During a reconnaissance trip to my local chain chemist, I’m affronted by shelf upon shelf of the stuff – saccharine, overpriced concoctions made primarily of water with shouty marketing copy.

Bar soap is more economical, eco-friendly and, ultimately, elegant. Bar soap, which commands a noticeably smaller section of my local chemist, isn’t trying to be anything it’s not.

Soap bars, which often don’t require packaging, are like the apples of the personal care world (they’re also like bananas in that they make great props for slapstick comedy).

While I suspect bar soap’s poor reputation comes from the fact that it is, typically, cheaper than body wash, there are signs it’s making a comeback according to some recent media reports.

Chichi lifestyle brand Flamingo Estate sells a $100 “Jasmine & Damask Rose Soap Brick” I wouldn’t mind putting on my body, while Hermes sells $55 French-made rounds to buy with your Birkin bag.

Last year Sydney Sweeney hopped on the trend when she released a limited edition soap bar supposedly made from her own bathwater.

We owe a great deal to soap – least of all its impact on modern hygiene and dramatically reducing the spread of disease.

More importantly, its given us soap operas, which derive their name from the fact that the earliest iterations of the genre, on radio, were sponsored by soap manufacturers.

I don’t think I’m drawing too long a bow by suggesting that without the foresight of soap marketers, we might not have known such wondrous shows as The Bold and the Beautiful, Neighbours and my personal favourite, Desperate Housewives (and for that matter, the reality television phenomenon Real Housewives it inspired).

Elsewhere in popular culture, there’s obviously every film bro’s favourite Fight Club, in which Brad Pitt plays the memorable soap salesman Tyler Durden. Its iconic, soap-centric poster is singed into my pre-pubescent memory as deeply as Edward Norton’s lye-induced chemical burn.

Meanwhile, Netflix’s Orange is the New Black turned the dated and homophobic “don’t drop the soap” prison joke on its head with its orgiastic, sapphic shower sex scenes.

So the next time I hear someone slander my beloved bar soap, I’ll be assembling a squad of defenders including myself, this lady from TLC’s reality show My Strange Addiction who eats over 100 bars of soap a year and notable Dove Beauty Bar lover Kim Cattrall.

We’re not having a bar of it.

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