Roman Hygiene and Beauty Rituals: How the Ancients Invented the Spa Day
If you ever think your skincare routine takes too long, imagine being a Roman. Two thousand years ago, people in togas were already obsessing over pores, perfumes, and public baths with a level of commitment that would make modern influencers look lazy. The empire that gave us roads and law also gave us the original wellness industry — complete with steam rooms, massage oils, communal scrubbing, and gossip sessions that would put any gym changing room to shame.
Let’s start with water, because without it, none of this glamorous grime removal could have happened. Rome didn’t rely on the Tiber alone; it built aqueducts — great stone arteries pumping millions of litres of clean water every day into fountains, cisterns, and of course, the famous baths. These aqueducts weren’t just feats of engineering; they were public relations statements in stone. Nothing said ‘civilisation’ like an endless flow of fresh water cascading over marble. The Aqua Appia, Aqua Claudia, Aqua Marcia — the names rolled off the tongue like luxury skincare lines. Some of them stretched for over fifty miles, carrying mountain water straight into the city. If you were Roman, you didn’t worry about your water pressure.
Once that water reached its destination, the real social magic began. The Roman thermae were not just places to wash; they were temples of cleanliness and conversation. For a few small coins, you could spend the afternoon soaking, steaming, and schmoozing your way through a routine that could rival a modern spa day. The Baths of Caracalla, for example, could accommodate over 1,600 people at once. Imagine that — a vast marble complex filled with steam, chatter, and the faint clinking of strigils, those curved metal scrapers every self-respecting Roman used to clean off oil and sweat. Forget loofahs; they literally scraped themselves clean.
The process followed a ritual rhythm. You’d start in the apodyterium, the changing room, where slaves guarded your clothes and your dignity, hopefully both intact at the end. Then you’d move to the tepidarium, a warm chamber to get your blood flowing. After that came the caldarium, a steaming hot bath that opened up the pores and the gossip channels alike. Once properly parboiled, you’d head to the frigidarium for a cold plunge that would shock the bravest soul awake. If you’re picturing something like a wellness retreat, add more noise, more nudity, and a touch of politics. Senators, soldiers, and merchants all mingled here, discussing everything from trade routes to who had been caught cheating on whom. Hygiene was democracy in the bath.
And yes, it was all done with oil. Romans didn’t have soap as we know it. Instead, they slathered their bodies in olive oil — sometimes scented, sometimes medicinal — which trapped dirt and sweat. Then came the strigil, scraping everything off in one slightly disgusting yet oddly satisfying motion. Archaeologists have unearthed these tools in bronze, silver, even gold, proving that cleanliness wasn’t just a virtue; it was a status symbol. Some bathers even brought personal slaves called aliptae to handle the scraping, massaging, and oiling. Think of them as ancient beauty therapists, minus the soothing playlist.
Beyond the baths, hygiene extended to every corner of Roman life. Take the latrines, for instance. Public toilets were a common sight in cities and military camps. Rows of stone seats with keyhole-shaped openings lined up over a running water channel — no privacy, no partitions, just you, your neighbour, and a lot of awkward eye contact. Beneath, an intricate sewage system whisked away the waste, another marvel of Roman engineering. The Cloaca Maxima, Rome’s grand sewer, still exists today. It drained not only the city’s waste but also its reputation for filth. To think: without it, the Roman Forum might have been more of a swamp than a symbol of power.
As for toilet paper, the Romans had their own version — the tersorium. Picture a sponge on a stick, dipped in salt water or vinegar between uses. Shared, yes. Hygienic, debatable. But it shows how thorough the Romans were in their pursuit of cleanliness, even in places best left unmentioned. There was even a superstition about the goddess Cloacina, patroness of the sewer. You prayed to her for good plumbing. Only the Romans could make sanitation spiritual.
Cleanliness, though, was never just about health. It was also about beauty and status. Wealthy Romans owned elaborate cosmetic kits — mirrors, tweezers, perfume bottles, and tiny spatulas for mixing creams. Excavations in Pompeii and Herculaneum have uncovered entire dressing tables frozen in time, complete with jars of face powder and kohl sticks. Both men and women wore makeup, though taste varied. A pale complexion was fashionable, achieved with chalk or lead-based creams (a beauty choice with long-term consequences). Eyes were darkened with soot or antimony, and lips tinted with wine dregs or crushed berries. In short, looking good could slowly poison you, but that didn’t stop anyone.
Perfume was another obsession. The Romans were masters of scent long before France got into the business. They imported exotic oils and resins from Arabia, India, and Egypt to create complex fragrances. The perfumers’ quarter in Pompeii produced oils that smelled of roses, myrrh, and cinnamon. Entire amphorae were found filled with unguents, some still bearing faint traces of their original contents. To walk through a Roman banquet was to inhale a symphony of smells — roasted peacock, spiced wine, and a dozen competing perfumes. Scent was power, and the wealthy used it liberally.
Their dental hygiene might surprise you too. Archaeological finds have turned up Roman toothpicks, tongue scrapers, and even rudimentary toothbrushes made from sticks with frayed ends. They used abrasive powders made from crushed bones, oyster shells, or charcoal mixed with flavourings like mint or myrrh. There’s even evidence that urine was used as a mouthwash — the ammonia content made it a decent cleaning agent, though one can imagine the social cost of smelling like a public latrine. Still, Romans valued clean teeth and fresh breath enough to endure it. That’s dedication.
Haircare was another field of artistic ambition. Barbershops, or tonstrinae, were bustling social hubs where men discussed politics while being shaved and perfumed. Hairstyles followed trends that shifted with imperial fashion. Women’s hairstyles became increasingly elaborate — towering curls, intricate braids, wigs imported from Germany. A fashionable Roman matron might spend hours being styled by her ornatrix, a personal hairdresser-slash-artist. Blonde hair was especially desirable, often achieved by bleaching with vinegar and plant ash, or, more dramatically, wearing wigs made from the hair of conquered barbarians. Nothing said empire quite like wearing your enemy’s hair.
Even nails had their moment. Manicure tools have been found in countless tombs, suggesting well-kept hands were as important as a polished toga. The upper classes were meticulous about appearance; smooth skin, styled hair, manicured nails — all spoke of refinement and control. Cleanliness wasn’t just about avoiding disease; it was about projecting Romanitas, that distinct blend of discipline, pride, and superiority that defined being Roman.
But let’s not over-romanticise it. The baths were full of gossip, yes, but also bacteria. The latrines stank. Lead pipes carried that pristine aqueduct water, quietly dosing citizens with heavy metal poisoning. And while elite Romans perfumed themselves to oblivion, poorer citizens often washed in rivers or used communal basins. Hygiene, like everything in Rome, was stratified. Even so, the Romans left behind a blueprint for urban sanitation that Europe wouldn’t match again for over a millennium.
Perhaps that’s the real irony. For all their decadence, the Romans understood something we’re still grappling with: cleanliness is social glue. The baths weren’t just about scrubbing; they were about belonging. You went there to see and be seen, to trade stories, make deals, flirt, and relax. A clean body was a public statement of civility. Maybe that’s why, even today, spas and gyms feel like secular temples. We’re still chasing the Roman ideal — clean, scented, and slightly self-satisfied.
If a time traveller from Rome walked into a modern wellness centre, they’d feel oddly at home. The eucalyptus steam, the massage oils, the chatter about politics or lovers — it would all ring familiar. Only the price would shock them. And maybe the towels.
So next time you light a candle, pour your bath salts, and sink into a tub while scrolling through your phone, spare a thought for those Romans. They did it all first — just without the playlist, without the privacy, and with rather more sponges on sticks.