A Letter to Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben (1730–1794)
Dear Baron,
In 1776, cleanliness was less a daily expectation and more a strategic negotiation with reality.
Modern Americans, standing beneath steaming showers with cucumber-mint body wash and seventeen-step skincare routines, would likely consider colonial hygiene somewhere between alarming and biologically adventurous.
And honestly? Fair enough.
The average person in Revolutionary America did not bathe regularly in the modern sense.
Full-body bathing remained infrequent, partly because hauling and heating enormous amounts of water required exhausting labor, and partly because many people genuinely believed excessive bathing could weaken the body or invite illness by opening the pores too aggressively.
Humanity spent centuries looking at soap and saying, “Suspicious.”
Instead, most hygiene followed what historians sometimes call a “dry-clean” philosophy. People washed hands, faces, and necks regularly using basins and pitchers, especially before meals or social appearances. Linen undergarments were changed and washed more often than outer garments because clean linen itself was believed to absorb bodily impurities.
Essentially, the shirt was doing emotional support work for the entire hygiene system.
And scent management? That was its own battlefield.
Without deodorant, antiperspirants, or modern soaps, body odor simply existed as part of ordinary life.
Perfumes,
herbs,
powders,
bay rum,
lavender sachets,
and scented waters
helped soften the situation somewhat, but let us be honest with one another across history:
Colonial America probably smelled intensely human.
Then there were teeth.
Or, increasingly, the lack thereof.
Toothbrushes were rare luxury items. Many people cleaned teeth using cloths, fingers, salt, soot, crushed herbs, or rough homemade powders.
Breath fresheners included cloves and mint leaves.
Severe dental pain often ended not with treatment, but extraction performed by whoever possessed enough courage, pliers, and questionable confidence to attempt it.
Medicine in 1776 frequently resembled a dare.
And yet hygiene mattered deeply, especially in military settings.
You understood this well, Baron.
Disease killed more soldiers during the Revolutionary War than battle itself. Army camps became dense little ecosystems of mud, waste, lice, spoiled food, contaminated water, and catastrophic gastrointestinal regret.
Washington repeatedly ordered sanitation measures because filth could cripple armies faster than muskets.
Clean camps meant survival.
At home, sanitation remained primitive by modern standards.
Chamber pots emptied into pits or streets.
Outhouses sat near wells with horrifying optimism regarding groundwater contamination.
Animals often lived close to humans.
Flies enjoyed unprecedented professional opportunities.
The miracle is not that disease spread rapidly.
The miracle is that anyone survived long enough to invent powdered wigs.
Then came the 19th century, and hygiene entered its awkward adolescence.
Americans slowly became more conscious of cleanliness, but habits evolved unevenly. Early in the century, most people still washed primarily at bedroom washstands equipped with pitchers, bowls, soap dishes, and towels. Full bathing remained occasional for many households.
But then science crashed the party.
The rise of germ theory after the Civil War fundamentally transformed public understanding of disease. Suddenly cleanliness no longer represented merely morality or social refinement. It became medical necessity. Invisible microorganisms, not “bad air” or weak character, spread illness.
This revelation changed civilization almost overnight.
Cities modernized sewer systems.
Indoor plumbing spread gradually among wealthier households.
Soap manufacturers exploded into booming businesses.
Bathing shifted from suspicious activity into respectable habit.
Public bathhouses appeared in urban areas.
The middle class increasingly equated cleanliness with progress, discipline, and status.
Victorian America, naturally, embraced this with exhausting enthusiasm.
Hair brushing became ritualized. Women reportedly brushed hair one hundred strokes nightly because apparently everyone in the 1800s had remarkable upper-body endurance and very little Netflix.
Men applied bay rum tonics with dramatic confidence.
Teeth cleaning improved slightly with commercial toothbrushes entering the market.
Still, outer clothing remained washed infrequently because laundering garments remained labor-intensive and fabrics delicate.
People often cleaned coats and dresses through vigorous brushing rather than soaking.
Which sounds practical until you remember 19th-century cities also contained horses everywhere.
Godspeed to those jackets.
Then the 20th century arrived and transformed hygiene into one of America’s defining consumer rituals.
Indoor plumbing changed everything.
The humble shower may actually rank among civilization’s greatest inventions, somewhere between antibiotics and air conditioning.
Once private bathrooms, running water, and reliable heating spread through American homes, bathing shifted rapidly from weekly necessity into daily expectation.
And corporations noticed immediately.
Soap companies,
deodorant brands,
toothpaste manufacturers,
razor companies,
shampoo advertisers,
mouthwash creators,
and cosmetic industries
all launched aggressive campaigns convincing Americans they were one slightly unpleasant odor away from social exile.
Some of the ads were absolutely savage.
Early deodorant campaigns essentially told consumers: “You may not realize it, but everyone secretly hates your armpits.”
A deeply motivational era.
Products like Ivory Soap, Lifebuoy, Listerine, and Colgate transformed hygiene into patriotism, professionalism, attractiveness, and moral responsibility all at once.
By the mid-20th century, the “clean American” became cultural ideal: freshly showered, neatly shaved, mint-breathed, and aggressively optimistic beneath fluorescent bathroom lighting.
Self-care also became increasingly gendered and commercialized.
Women faced expanding beauty expectations involving skincare, shaving, hair maintenance, makeup, perfumes, and body products.
Men shifted from barbershop straight razors toward daily home shaving with safety razors and electric devices.
The bathroom became a marketplace.
And now we arrive in 2026, Baron, where hygiene and self-care have evolved into something sprawling, psychological, digital, therapeutic, and occasionally just a little unhinged.
Modern Americans shower frequently, brush teeth obsessively, sanitize hands reflexively, and navigate skincare routines complicated enough to resemble chemistry dissertations.
Entire aisles of stores now glow with serums, exfoliants, moisturizers, masks, oils, probiotics, toners, collagen supplements, and products promising “radiance” through ingredients harvested from what appears to be enchanted forests.
The skincare industry alone has become a billion-dollar confidence ritual.
But the pandemic changed everything further.
COVID-19 transformed hygiene into permanent public consciousness.
Hand sanitizer stations appeared everywhere.
People became hyper-aware of pathogens, air circulation, disinfecting wipes, and surface contamination.
Millions developed cleaning habits likely to outlive the pandemic itself.
At the same time, self-care expanded beyond physical cleanliness into emotional maintenance.
And perhaps that shift says something profound about modern life.
Today, “self-care” includes
therapy,
meditation apps,
exercise,
journaling,
skincare routines,
supplements,
spa visits,
digital detoxes,
mindfulness practices,
sleep optimization,
hydration tracking,
and enough wellness influencers to populate a small republic.
Humans are no longer merely trying to stay clean.
They are trying to stay emotionally operational.
Stress levels remain extraordinarily high. Many Americans feel overwhelmed by work, technology, finances, politics, loneliness, and information overload.
So…self-care transformed from luxury into coping mechanism.
Sometimes sincere.
Sometimes monetized beyond parody.
Because naturally, capitalism looked at human exhaustion and thought, “Excellent business opportunity.”
And yet beneath the commercialization lives something genuine.
Humans do need rest, care, touch, cleanliness, health, and moments of restoration.
The body and mind are not separate kingdoms.
They leak constantly into one another.
A hot shower can calm grief.
A clean room can soften anxiety.
Sleep can rescue perspective.
Movement can interrupt despair.
These are ancient truths hiding beneath modern branding.
Still, modern hygiene contains its own contradictions.
America remains simultaneously obsessed with wellness and deeply unequal in access to it.
Millions struggle to afford basic necessities like toothpaste, soap, detergent, menstrual products, or healthcare. “Hygiene poverty” now affects enormous numbers of families quietly and invisibly.
Nothing exposes inequality faster than discussing who gets to feel clean comfortably.
Baron, if you could wander through America in 2026, you would marvel at indoor plumbing alone.
Heated showers.
Toothpaste flavors resembling dessert menus.
Entire stores devoted exclusively to skin hydration.
Yet you might also recognize something familiar beneath all the products and routines:
Humans are still fighting vulnerability through ritual.
Only now the rituals come packaged in recyclable containers with minimalist typography.
With admiration, caution, and one absurdly expensive bottle of moisturizer,
—The Radical Left 🛀🖤
And dear reader, perhaps this is the deeper question hygiene and self-care ask us after 250 years: where is the line between genuine care and endless optimization? Have modern routines made us healthier, or simply more anxious about our bodies and appearance?
And why, in one of the cleanest civilizations in human history, do so many people still feel exhausted, overwhelmed, and emotionally depleted?
Because from colonial washbasins to modern wellness culture, humanity has always been trying to accomplish the same impossible task:
Keeping fragile bodies and minds together long enough to continue living meaningfully.