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With an eye toward the circular economy and the future of style, Glamour will examine the big business of fashion’s secondhand market, which is poised to double in size (to $77 billion) in the next five years with our Restyled series, which will run throughout the month of April.
Socks are not controversial, even on an internet that often erupts into a debate about hygiene: How often should you shower? Is it necessary to wash your legs? We side-eye at communal bathroom sinks, vigorous scrubbers squinting at handwashing minimalists and vice versa. The aluminum-deodorant crowd viciously judges the natural-deo community. The phrase “How often…” typed into a Google search autofills with “…should you wash your hair?” The human body oozes, sweats, and sheds; keeping it clean is an endless, and strangely contentious, task.
But we all pretty much agree about feet. There is little debate: Feet are disgusting. They are lubricated by sweat and spend all day stuffed in multiple casings. They manufacture and produce their own scent, and that scent is bad. It’s a relief to remove one’s socks. Of course socks have to be changed every day.
Unless. Silver Spun, a company that makes knit socks with upcycled cotton spun with actual silver, thinks it has found another way. The idea, according to the brand, is that the silver strands “thoughtfully inhibit the growth of odor-causing bacteria and assists in killing germs.” Laurie Gonyea, a knitter and the owner of a yarn store, created the socks with scientists from a textile lab at North Carolina State University. The combination of crafting and chemistry means that a fresh, clean feeling is yours, the ad copy promises, “for up to one week.” I asked Gonyea whether she really wears the socks as advertised. “I wear mine for at least a week before I wash them,” she confirms. “Consequently, I am still wearing some that I got three years ago when I started the business, and they still look like new.”
Could high-quality, low-maintenance socks be the next sought-after lifestyle upgrade, like a pricey blender or silk pajama set? It is the age of having the best of everything—or at least, everything that has been advertised on Instagram. If you are susceptible to neutral tones and promises of chic durability, your home may quickly become a museum of direct-to-consumer products, like a sleeker update of a QVC home of the mid-2000s. I already have the indestructible tights (Sheertex), the seamless, wireless bra (Knix), and the sweat-soaking undershirt (Numi). I’ve tried the washable slip-ons made out of wool (Allbirds) but not the washable flats made out of water bottles (Rothys). I find myself reaching for my credit card when I see shade names like wheat and blush, or the words “patent-pending technology.”
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So I tried wearing the Silver Spun socks as advertised: the same every day for one week. I kept them on all day for seven continuous days, plus a few nights. Every time I showered, I put the socks back on. Here is my tale.
Day one
I slip on the socks for the first time and they feel excellent. They feel like Chris Evans’s character from Knives Out is practicing foot worship on me. Since I am the kind of person who has trouble parting with more than $35 for a top, these socks instantly become one of the nicer things I own. Usually I wear socks my dad bought me several years ago from Costco. They are low-rise and say “kb” on the toe. These socks were popular among my peers in high school, and I have clung to that. Come P.E. time, every cool girl would roll up her Soffe shorts three times, revealing a dainty set of K.Bell ankle socks. Would current high school girls appreciate the luxurious knit of these socks? That’s not known at this time.
Day two
Putting my socks back on the next day: They feel clean! They feel brand-new! They are pleasing to the eye! I like to think that they give me a little “fashion” element. Possibly I look like I am going to play T-ball. The socks are luxuriously thick, and they make wearing my medium-heel boots more comfortable. Since most of my socks are ankle socks, when I wear boots, I usually put on a pair of midcalf socks that my aunt once sent me that say “HALLOWEEN.” It is nice to wear the SilverSpun socks and give the HALLOWEEN socks a little break. About eight hours into day two, my feet are a little sweaty and I am looking forward to showering.
Day three
There’s nothing like cornering people in your life and hissing, “I’ve been wearing the same pair of socks all week.” The look of shocked revulsion does not get old. I tell the man I am dating about my project. He asks to smell the socks. This feels more intimate than sharing a bed or an iPhone pass code. I decant one sock into his hand. Making extremely strong eye contact, he runs the sock over face, like an actor in a perfume ad brushing a long-stem rose across her face. “I don’t smell anything,” he says. I deposit this episode into my mental category of “Surprisingly Erotic Interactions,” next to the files “Buying Me a Latte” and “Demonstrating Real Interest in My Friends’ Personal Lives.” I smell the sock. Indeed, it has no scent.
Day four
I hit a roadblock: The socks look, smell, and feel fine. But I don’t want to wear them, because I know I have been wearing them all week. The skin cells I have shed in this time surely have the same volume as a shorn sheep. To get myself to put the socks back on, I pretend that I am one half of the thru-hiker couple I follow on TikTok. If Renee and Tim can walk from Mexico to Canada in four months, surely I can roll my environmentally conscious silver socks over my feet. At least I do not have to sleep with a frozen water bottle against my skin so that my body heat will melt it into a drinkable liquid for the next day. In comparison, my burden is light.
Day five
I am identifying a mild crunch to the socks now. A Gen Z’er might call them “crusty and dusty.” They look and smell decent. I find myself avoiding situations where I might have to take them off—wearing flats, showering, etc.—because I dread the chilly feeling of not-yet-absorbed sweat sitting on the surface of the knit. It’s the cousin of the feeling of going to the bathroom at a swimming pool and having to pull your wet swimsuit back up over your damp skin.
Day six
The socks have now developed a light stench, like steam off a cauldron of cheese fondue. It’s mild—I would be laughed out of a high school boys’ locker room for claiming to smell especially bad. But there is a definite crust beginning to form. Also, I have started to think of my feet as “my little hooves.”
Day seven
The dawn of day seven brings a light but consistent dampness. The deterioration of my comfort feels poetic to me. Inevitably, even the luxury of a chunky knit decomposes over time into a soggy foot wrapper. Of course it does! We cannot fend off the repulsive nature of the body forever!
The SilverSpun socks work—they feel clean and smell neutral much longer than regular socks. Just not for an entire week, at least on my feet. I would count on them for three days of comfortable, consistent wear, or four depending where you fall on your sweat habits. These socks would make a great gift for anyone who does a lot of physical activities, or anyone who, like me, forgets to do laundry to the point of resorting to novelty boxers and bikini bottoms as underwear. Outdoorsy people and disgusting cretins, unite! We meet at midnight, in our matching socks.
Jenny Singer is a staff writer for Glamour. You can follow her on Twitter.
