The mysterious case of the missing toilet soap bars

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.

- REY ELBO

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.