A few days ago, something unexpected happened.

I pulled my handkerchief out of my back pocket to blow my nose — nothing dramatic, just an ordinary act for me — and the woman I was with laughed.

Not maliciously, mind you, but with that kind of surprised amusement that says, “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”

She chuckled and said, “Wow, that’s so old school!”

I smiled, but inside, I’ll admit — I felt a little jab. Old school? Since when did carrying a clean, folded piece of cotton become a symbol of age rather than civility?

Apparently, sometime between the rise of Kleenex and the decline of ironing, handkerchiefs slipped from everyday necessity to nostalgic relic. I had no idea. I thought I was just being practical — and maybe even a bit classy.

A Brief History of the Humble Hanky

The word handkerchief (yes, I spelled it right — “hand” + “kerchief,” from the French *couvrir chef*, meaning “cover the head”) goes back centuries. And believe it or not, there was a time when handkerchiefs weren’t tucked into jeans but displayed proudly as symbols of refinement and status.

 

In the 16th and 17th centuries, among the European aristocracy — especially in France and England — handkerchiefs were embroidered, laced, perfumed, and flaunted. They were included in dowries, mentioned in wills, and even immortalized in art.

King Louis XVI was so particular about them that in 1785 he passed a law requiring all handkerchiefs in France to be square. Imagine that: a royal decree about geometry in pocket linen.

By the 18th century, as snuff-taking grew in popularity, hankies became even more common (and colorful — to hide the stains). They eventually evolved from aristocratic fashion statements into personal accessories for the masses. A gentleman’s pocket square, a lady’s scented lace — the handkerchief was as much about elegance as hygiene.

The Great Kleenex Takeover

The fall of the handkerchief didn’t happen overnight — it was carefully engineered by Madison Avenue.

It began in the 1920s, when the Cellucotton Company (later renamed Kimberly-Clark) invented a soft, disposable sheet made of creped cellulose. It was originally designed as a makeup remover for women, sold under the brand name Kleenex in 1924.

For the first few years, the advertising targeted movie stars and beauty salons — “Use Kleenex to remove cold cream and powder!” — nothing to do with noses. But in 1929, Kimberly-Clark executives noticed something odd: customers were writing in to say they preferred to use Kleenex when they had colds.

Sensing a bigger market, the company pivoted. New ads proclaimed Kleenex as a “disposable handkerchief.” The tagline became, “Don’t carry a cold in your pocket!”

That simple phrase — combining hygiene, convenience, and modernity — was revolutionary. Within a few years, the paper tissue had gone from cosmetic accessory to household staple.

By the 1940s, with the wartime emphasis on sanitation and efficiency, disposable tissues were firmly entrenched in American life. Mothers handed them to children instead of washing cloth hankies. Hospitals and schools adopted them for hygiene reasons. And gradually, the cloth handkerchief — once laundered, folded, and pressed with care — became associated with something unhygienic, even old-fashioned.

 

By the 1950s and 1960s, Kleenex had sealed the deal. Their marketing portrayed the disposable as modern, feminine, and clean — while the cloth hanky was male, dirty, and outdated. The phrase “Don’t put it back in your pocket!” appeared in ads.

The cultural tide had turned.

My Reality: Team Tissue and Team Hanky

Here’s the truth: I love tissues.

I have them everywhere in my life — a box in my car, one by my bed, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, and another on my desk. I reach for them constantly. They’re part of my daily rhythm, always within arm’s reach.

But I also — always — have a folded white handkerchief in my back pocket. Every pair of pants. Every pair of shorts. Every time I leave the house.
Always white. Always folded. There’s something about a crisp white handkerchief — simple, clean, timeless. No patterns, no embroidery, no gimmicks. Just white cotton, ready for service.

And no, I don’t iron them folded — they’re hand-folded, sometimes not perfectly, but always there. Reliable. Familiar.

Why? Because I want it ready, no matter what comes up. A sneeze, a bit of sweat, wiping the corner of my eye — whether it’s from pollen or a passing emotion. And yes, I also carry it for someone else. If a companion ever needs it, I’ll have it to offer.

I would never leave home without one.

So imagine my shock to learn that some people find this “old school,” even laughable. Egad! As if good manners and preparedness had expiration dates.

Hygiene and Eco Realities: The Trade-Offs

Of course, tradition alone isn’t the full story — there are practical questions, too.

Is a cloth handkerchief as hygienic? Is it better for the planet?

The short answer: it depends.

Health and hygiene:
Experts say tissues have the hygiene edge because they’re single-use. You blow, you toss, you’re done. No lingering germs in your pocket or laundry basket. One British science magazine put it bluntly: “Don’t carry a cold in your pocket.”

A handkerchief can be just as clean — if it’s handled properly. That means using a fresh one each day, folding to a clean spot, washing it hot, and not tucking a damp one back into your pants. The trouble is, few of us are that disciplined when we’re sneezing through allergy season.

Environmental impact:
Here, the story takes a twist. Most people assume reusable must mean greener — but a detailed life-cycle analysis comparing cotton handkerchiefs to paper tissues found that, under typical use, the cloth version actually had five to seven times greater (i.e., negative) environmental impact.

Why? Cotton cultivation and textile production are energy- and water-intensive, and frequent washing and drying add to that footprint. Only when a handkerchief is used for many years, washed efficiently, and air-dried does it start to outperform the paper option.

In short: tissues are more hygienic by default, and sometimes more sustainable too — unless you’re the kind of person who treats their handkerchief with the same care as a fine linen napkin.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing to aspire to.

Why I Still Carry One

So yes, I carry a handkerchief.

For utility — for the occasional sneeze or tear. And for kindness — to offer, if needed, to someone else. There’s something comforting about that simple gesture.

It’s small, personal, and human — the very opposite of disposable.

Call me sentimental, but I think there’s still room in this world for a man and his hanky.