The mysterious case of the missing toilet soap bars

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December 2, 2025 | 12:00am

If the modern workplace had a spirit animal, it wouldn’t be the mighty lion, the wise owl or even the notoriously hardworking ant. Its true symbol would be the toilet soap bar. Silent. Overworked. Underpaid. Constantly dissolving under pressure. And, like many employees, slowly disappearing without explanation.

But when actual soap bars started vanishing from the factory’s 15 comfort rooms, the administration manager and the head of security nearly formed their own investigative task force — CSI: Comfort Room Scene Investigation.

This case study is a regular feature of my Kaizen workshops. The factory was losing about $125 worth of soap a month, which, in financial terms, was roughly the cost of seven boxes of pizza from S&R. But the bar soaps weren’t just ordinary products.

They were lovingly manufactured by a cooperative of employees and their families — an entrepreneurial side hustle born from suds and solidarity.

Managers, lacking evidence but never theories, began suspecting that workers were secretly taking the soap home. Not because they were unhygienic, but simply because there were daring workers out there.

Every missing bar felt like a tiny economic heartbreak for the cooperative. They didn’t want management to suspect they were creating false demand for their soaps. That’s why they agreed with the security manager’s proposal to frisk employees at the gate.

But the CEO vetoed it immediately, citing their sacred “Respect for People” policy — an important Kaizen principle, and also a fast way to avoid a labor union uprising.

The soap bar strikes back

Toilet soap bars have always been the blue-collar heroes of workplace hygiene. They don’t come in glamorous pump bottles with names like “Mystic Sakura Falls” or “Ultra-Luxe Vitamin-Infused Cloud Foam.” They’re just… soap. But the kind of hygiene product you’d want by your side during a zombie outbreak.

In my recent seminar, someone asked a question that would ignite an office-wide philosophical debate: “Why not switch to liquid soap? Isn’t that classier? More hygienic?”

The CEO had actually considered that before. However, switching to liquid soap required upfront capital — money the cooperative didn’t have. And besides, people could still steal that. All it takes is one empty mineral water bottle and a covetous dream.

One seminar participant in another session wondered why the company was spending precious time solving what seemed like a microscopic issue. Apparently, he was not listening. That’s the magic of Kaizen. There should be no problem too small to analyze, attack, argue about and create a multicolored Fishbone Diagram.

With Kaizen as the workers’ KPI, soap was no longer soap. It had evolved into a full-blown corporate saga, including one worker who proposed cutting the soap bars into tiny “hotel-sized” versions to make it unattractive toYou know the type — the ones so small you lose them before they even touch water. This worked for about three days before they realized the only thing they solved was making the missing soaps lighter to steal.

Then another Kaizen warrior emerged with the seriousness of a UN diplomat. This hero defended the liquid soap solution, arguing that it was more hygienic, more modern, and less “ewww” since no one would have to touch germs left by previous users.

That was the tipping point; the era of liquid soap had finally arrived. The CEO had no choice but to approve it. Soon, they arrived bottled in ergonomic dispensers bought by the factory. They looked like they could win design awards.

Workers applauded. Hygiene had finally entered the 21st century. And then the miracle — theft dropped to almost zero and nobody knows the reason.

The sudsy conclusion

The cooperative’s bar soap — previously a victim of mysterious disappearances — began a new life. No longer chained to factory comfort rooms. It found fame as a family soap sold in sari-sari stores, barangay stalls and neighborhood weekend flea market.

Like retired employees discovering gardening, the soap bars reinvented themselves. Thanks to management, an open-minded cooperative, new opportunities suddenly opened up. They became “old-school classics,” the hygiene version of vinyl records — nostalgic, underrated and surprisingly profitable.

Bottled liquid soap strutted proudly across the factory’s toilet flaunting its moisturizers and antibacterial claims. It became the office diva, the Beyoncé of bathroom sanitation.

The cooperative, once worried about losses, suddenly found itself handling a booming product line. Thanks to their newfound ingenuity and a few Facebook Marketplace tricks, they began selling soap online to the public.

The employee-owners did it with “free shipping promo.” Some even became micro-influencers — posting dramatic slow-motion videos of soap bubbles bursting under sunlight.

The humble toilet soap bar, once the victim of mysterious disappearances, ended up sparking one of the most unexpectedly productive Kaizen exercises in the factory’s history. It united managers, rescued a cooperative from financial drain, elevated workplace hygiene to new heights, but confused the security office.

Overall, it reminded us of one basic truth: No issue is too small when people care enough to fix it. The real culture of a workplace isn’t defined by grand strategies or polished vision statements — it’s forged in how seriously we treat the smallest details. Even the ones that melt.

Rey Elbo is a quality and productivity enthusiast. Email your story to [email protected] or DM him on Facebook, LinkedIn, X or via https://reyelbo.com. Anonymity is guaranteed to people who like to wash their hands.