When I started knitting, I didn’t even come across superwash yarn. My early stash as an eight-year-old knitter was a mix of what I had been given by my sheep-farmer teacher: sensible practice wool in shades of salmon-colored Kool-Aid, a ball of deep purple chenille I had fished out of the bottom of one of her bins, and two skeins of Noro Kureyon in bright colors.
Like most kids of the 1980s, my life was full of color. Plastic products brought a whole new world of color into children’s toys, television, and clothing. Intense color of any variety feels familiar and nostalgic: a candy-coated space that resides in my memory. There’s a certain sentimental appeal to over-the-top, unreserved color application.
In 2006, I rediscovered my love of knitting through online forums and library books. When my parents visited me in college, I’d beg them to take me to a local yarn shop, where I could peruse shelves stocked with multicolored real wools. Aside from my early knitting education, and throughout college, the only yarns I had access to had been acrylics from the big-box store, where I sought out colorful yarns that captured my imagination. In natural wools, I did the same, discovering brands driven by this same love of painterly, intense, and arresting color. Naturally, this led me to superwash wool, an increasingly popular material on which fiber dyers could display their creativity.
When I started knitting, I didn’t even come across superwash yarn. My early stash as an eight-year-old knitter was a mix of what I had been given by my sheep-farmer teacher: sensible practice wool in shades of salmon-colored Kool-Aid, a ball of deep purple chenille I had fished out of the bottom of one of her bins, and two skeins of Noro Kureyon in bright colors.
Like most kids of the 1980s, my life was full of color. Plastic products brought a whole new world of color into children’s toys, television, and clothing. Intense color of any variety feels familiar and nostalgic: a candy-coated space that resides in my memory. There’s a certain sentimental appeal to over-the-top, unreserved color application.
In 2006, I rediscovered my love of knitting through online forums and library books. When my parents visited me in college, I’d beg them to take me to a local yarn shop, where I could peruse shelves stocked with multicolored real wools. Aside from my early knitting education, and throughout college, the only yarns I had access to had been acrylics from the big-box store, where I sought out colorful yarns that captured my imagination. In natural wools, I did the same, discovering brands driven by this same love of painterly, intense, and arresting color. Naturally, this led me to superwash wool, an increasingly popular material on which fiber dyers could display their creativity. [PAYWALL]
The Dominance of Superwash Merino
Superwash wool takes color at a level that feels a little brighter, deeper, and more saturated than non-superwash wools. But first, some general background on the concept of “superwash.”
Not all superwash is made the same way, and new methods are being developed continually, but they all have the same goal: to keep wool from felting in the washing machine and dryer. Long considered the primary drawback to working with super-soft wools, felting is what happens when wool meets heat, water, and friction. The scales–individual layered structures on each strand of wool, similar to the ones on our own hair–open up with heat and humidity, then lock back together with friction. Felting can be a desirable effect when applied intentionally. It can also destroy hundreds of hours of crafting in 45 minutes when someone carelessly tosses their handknitted socks into the laundry basket. (I highly recommend learning more about many of the superwash processes available; the [YarnStories podcast] has a wonderful two-part series with additional linked follow-up articles.)
In theory, any wool can be superwash-treated, although the process is typically performed on high-demand wools, because the facilities that do this process work in large batches. Merino is the most in-demand, softest wool for all industries (not just handknitting), and it’s also the most likely to felt, so most of the superwash wool available is Merino. Heartier wools that are less likely to felt easily, such as the Down breeds, are never considered for superwashing.
The scarcity of these breeds is directly related to the quest for softness and the global textile market demand. Many wool breeds that were historically used to create ideal sock yarns have become scarce, even among handknitting yarns. There is no demand, because the consumer doesn’t even know to ask for the fiber they need.
As a result, what is considered the “best” sock yarn for many knitters since the mid-2000s meets the criteria of washable, affordable, and widely available: fingering weight, superwash Merino wool, often blended with nylon. As a bonus, wool that has a less textured surface also has an increased sheen, and a material that has been altered often accepts color more readily, too.
Thus the seemingly unending boom of superwash wool popularity began and has held on steadily, buoyed by the artistry of talented dyers. Over the last decade, however, I’ve been seeing a shift–in myself, and in other knitters–that I have dubbed the Synthetic-Free Switch.
Turning Away from Superwash
I will fully admit that I came to the end of my relationship with superwash wool woefully uninformed–and in some cases, entirely misinformed—by word of mouth. At the same time as the superwash boom, I was beginning my career working for yarn companies, learning a lot in the process while defining my own personal compass for what materials I’d prefer to work with.
I was raised by a parent passionate about environmental issues, so plastics were high on my no-go list, and acrylics and acrylic blends were the first yarns to leave my shopping list and stash. I stopped purchasing superwash wools when I heard that the way wool was processed involved coating the material with plastic polymers. This misinformation turned me toward spinning my own yarns and discovering different wool breeds, which in turn led me to design my own sock yarns. I discovered that the durability of my socks could be much improved simply by using a heartier, non-superwash wool.
Later, I would learn that most widely used superwash processes do not actually involve plastics, but instead other materials–there’s a wonderful outline of many of them through the Journal of Advanced Research that also discusses their environmental impacts and efficacy. Also, an International Wool Textile Organisation report (recently dissected by The Wool Channel) suggests that superwash yarns themselves pose no perceivable environmental threat through washing or biodegrading.
Moving away from superwash-treated yarns has opened the horizons of interesting colors and textures (such as this natural-colored wool spun at a small mill). Photo by Hannah Thiessen
The Wide World of Wools
Still used in many of these sock yarns, though, is nylon. Many knitters have heard that nylon is the ingredient pulling the weight and preventing their knits from falling apart. Through my time in manufacturing, I’ve learned a hard truth: the nylon used in sock yarns isn’t a monofilament web, tying every strand and stitch together. Generally, nylon fibers are cut into the same length as the base fiber (in this case, Merino wool) and added into the top during the carding and combing phase for a seamless blend. While this might improve elasticity ever so slightly, it certainly does next to nothing for the durability of any material, and it is responsible for micro-plastic release into our waterways each time we wash our socks or other superwash items.
My personal experiences knitting and spinning my own yarns for socks have taught me that yarn construction, fiber choice, and a tight gauge make the most difference in durability, and so I have begun to dive into these elements when searching for the perfect wool in any project–socks or otherwise.
Over the past decade, I’ve slowly transitioned my stash away from synthetics. I have used, given away, donated, sold, or re-gifted most of my superwash wools, although I no longer feel guilty about using the few I’ve kept. Throughout the process, I’ve discovered and developed a new relationship with wool as a material. I often find myself asking: why change something that is already so endlessly variable, perfect, and interesting? Why demand that wool be anything but what it is? Now, I look at the growing distance I have from synthetic blends, additions, and superwashing not as avoidance, but exploration. I appreciate in a deeper way the nuance of each breed–and in some cases, the variations within single breeds. I’ve begun to notice that some wools love being spun in certain ways or knit in specific ways. I’m diving into the subtle and drastic differences: longwools and finewools, dual-coated and downy, worsted and woolen spinning and finishing. For me, the Synthetic-Free Switch was not a change, but instead an illuminating beam.
Hannah Thiessen is the author of Slow Knitting and Seasonal Slow Knitting. The Communications Director for Battenkill Fibers, she is also a teacher, knitwear designer, and consultant with knitting and fiber companies. She knits, spins, and writes in Nashville, Tennessee. Find her online at slow-knitting.com and on Instagram as @hannahbelleknits.
Links
The wool-processing industry continues to develop new shrinkproofing processes. Here are a few resources to learn more about the range of superwashing methods.
Miriam Felton, “Superwash Wool with Cliff Cox” (interview). Yarn Stories Podcast Part 1, April 10, 2019 and Part 2, April 17 2019
Mohammad M. Hossan and Christopher M. Cox, “A review of the sustainable methods in imparting shrink resistance to wool fabrics.” Journal of Advanced Research, Volume 18, July 2019, Pages 39-60
AgResearch, “Microfibre Pollution and the Marine Biodegradation of Wool.”
Clara Parkes, “Shrinkproofing Wool: A Quick Primer.” The Wool Channel, November 4, 2021.
