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I first had the idea and started working on Nice Seats—seat covers for airplanes—back in 2007. This was long before exposés revealing terrifying results from laboratory studies and swabs taken from airplane seats, showing us just how dirty and disgusting they really were. This was also long before the COVID-19 pandemic, when we all became exponentially more conscientious about germs than ever before in our lives, with so many of us still hyper-aware and having cleanliness top of mind even today.
So while there is undeniably a practical, hygiene-focused side to my product, I've noticed something curious over the years. When people look at Nice Seats—particularly those who aren't overly concerned about germs—they often ask: "Why is this important? Why do we need this? This seems so over the top." That reaction seems almost absurd to me when you consider that pretty much everyone you ask anywhere in the Western world, when asked if they like clean sheets, enthusiastically says yes.
Isn't the love of clean sheets, and the desire to have the only space you occupy—the space you're confined to for anywhere from one to twenty-four hours on a plane—be clean and comfortable, reason enough? Why wouldn't you want that space to feel fresh, to feel like it's yours, even temporarily? Isn't our universal love for cleanliness and the comfort we all derive in a visceral, deeply human way from clean sheets enough of a justification?
Think about it. When you slip into your bed after changing the sheets, it's not just the logic of knowing that your linens are germ-free that makes you sigh with contentment. There's something profoundly satisfying that happens—a comfort that's simultaneously physiological, physical, and psychological. The cool crispness against your skin. The fresh scent. The feeling of renewal and care. Clean sheets represent a reset button for our day, a small luxury that makes us feel taken care of, even if we're the ones who did the caring.
That feeling is universal. It transcends culture, income level, and lifestyle. Whether you're sleeping on high-thread-count Egyptian cotton or budget-friendly microfiber, the sensation of climbing into freshly laundered sheets is one of life's simple, reliable pleasures. It's comfort food for the soul, a tactile reminder that we're safe, clean, and worthy of something nice.
That's exactly why I created Nice Seats.
Now, let's talk about what you're actually dealing with when you board a plane. That seat you're settling into for the next several hours? It's not really "your" seat at all. It's a public seat that has been sat in, slept on, eaten in, sweated on, sneezed into, and subjected to any number of other things that we lovely, imperfect humans do during air travel.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of people have occupied that exact space before you. Business travelers on red-eyes who dozed with their faces pressed against the headrest. Families with young children with sticky little fingers and runny little noses. Passengers fighting off colds. The seat has absorbed all of it—the oils from skin and hair, the particles from sneezes, dandruff; the invisible residue of countless journeys.
And here's the thing: those seats aren't cleaned the way you clean your sheets at home. Between flights, cabin crews do what they can in the fifteen to twenty minutes they have for turnover, but they're primarily picking up trash and doing a quick visual sweep. The deep cleaning happens far less frequently than you'd probably like to imagine and with chemicals I'd bet you wouldn't want to marinate in.
So how can it be difficult to see the value in having clean sheets be part of that scenario? How is wanting to wrap yourself in something fresh and clean while confined to a small space for hours considered "over the top"?
I think part of the disconnect comes from the fact that we've normalized discomfort in travel. We've accepted that flying means being squeezed into tight spaces, breathing recycled air, eating mediocre food, and yes, sitting in seats that other people have occupied without much thought to cleanliness. We've been conditioned to think of air travel as something to be endured rather than experienced with any degree of comfort or dignity.
But just because something has been normalized doesn't mean it's ideal. And just because we've accepted discomfort doesn't mean we can't reclaim some control over our immediate environment.
While the germaphobe in all of us might appreciate the protective barrier that NiceSeats provides, the real magic isn't just about killing bacteria or avoiding viruses. It's about reclaiming that feeling—that clean sheet feeling—in a place where it's desperately needed.
When you're traveling, you're already outside your comfort zone. You're navigating airports, dealing with security lines, managing luggage, and coordinating schedules. You're probably tired, possibly stressed, maybe anxious about your destination or the reason for your trip. Your nervous system is already working overtime.
Then you finally get to your seat—your tiny kingdom for the next several hours—and what if, instead of resigning yourself to sitting on a surface that dozens of strangers have occupied, you could wrap yourself in something that feels fresh and clean? What if you could have that psychological reset that clean sheets provide, even at 35,000 feet?
That's not indulgent. That's not excessive. That's basic human comfort.
There's real science behind why we love clean sheets so much. Our sense of touch is directly connected to our emotional well-being. The tactile experience of smooth, clean fabric against our skin triggers a relaxation response. It signals safety and care to our nervous system. It's why babies are soothed by soft blankets and why weighted blankets have become so popular for anxiety relief.
When you create a clean, comfortable microenvironment around your airplane seat, you're giving your body and mind permission to relax in a space that's typically anything but relaxing. You're telling yourself, through a simple physical intervention, that you deserve comfort. That your well-being matters, even in transit.
The smell matters too. Clean fabric has a neutral, fresh scent—or if you use your own products, maybe it carries a hint of your favorite laundry detergent, a familiar scent that connects you to home even when you're thousands of miles away. That olfactory comfort can be incredibly grounding when everything else about travel feels disorienting.
I've spent nearly two decades now listening to people's reactions to NiceSeats. The enthusiastic adopters who immediately get it, who experience that "why didn't I think of this?" moment. And the skeptics who think it's unnecessary, who pride themselves on not being "fussy" about such things.
But here's what I want to challenge: Why have we decided that wanting to feel clean and comfortable is "fussy"? Why is prioritizing our basic sensory comfort considered high-maintenance?
We don't question bringing a neck pillow on a flight. We don't think twice about downloading movies or podcasts to make the time pass more pleasantly. We accept that people want to be comfortable, and we've built entire industries around in-flight entertainment, travel pillows, compression socks, and sleep masks.
Yet somehow, wanting the surface you're sitting and potentially sleeping on to feel clean is seen as going too far?
The truth is beautifully simple: Clean sheets feel good. They feel good at home, and they feel good on a plane. They provide psychological comfort, physical comfort, and yes, practical protection. But even if we set aside every argument about germs and bacteria and viruses—even if we pretend that airplane seats are immaculately sanitized before every flight—the desire for that clean sheet feeling would still be reason enough.
We don't need to justify wanting to feel comfortable. We don't need a pandemic or a shocking laboratory study to validate the very human desire to surround ourselves with cleanliness in our immediate environment, especially when that environment is one we can't escape for hours at a time.
When I created Nice Seats in 2005, I wasn't trying to solve a problem that didn't exist. I was trying to bring a universal comfort—one that we all enjoy at home—into a space where it was conspicuously absent. I was trying to give travelers back a small piece of control, a way to make their journey feel less like an ordeal and more like a journey they could actually settle into.
At the end of the day, that's what this is really about: the love of clean sheets. It's a love that needs no justification, no scientific studies, no global health crisis to validate it. It's enough on its own—that desire to feel fresh, clean, and cared for, even in a cramped airplane seat somewhere over the Atlantic.
So the next time someone asks me why NiceSeats matter, why anyone would "need" such a thing, I'm going to skip past the germ statistics and the lab results. I'm going to ask them a simpler question: Don't you love clean sheets?
And when they inevitably say yes—because who doesn't?—I'll simply smile and say: Exactly. That's reason enough.
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