Today, Jessica is literally gagging on her own odor. At the gym, her workout buddy Hannah confesses that when she walks by Jessica or works out on the equipment she just finished on, she can still smell Jessica's "lingering stink cloud."

According to those who have quit showering before us (who knew there's an active no-soap movement on Reddit?), it can take weeks for the body to adjust. I read accounts of people who claim they don't smell at all, and I'm convinced they're lying. Aganovic assures me this is actually the norm. In 60 percent of people, the good bacteria push the smelly microbes out, and they're able to quit deodorant completely. Either it's taking a long time for our good bacteria to colonize, or Jessica and I belong to the other 40 percent.

When Jessica returns from the gym, the editors who sit closest to her stand up and cover their noses in protest. "This is the worst day by far." They take their laptops and book a conference room on the other side of the building.

Since realizing the other day that my patch of scalp psoriasis is shedding in sheets, I can't keep my hands off of it. Usually, it's inflamed, irritated and angry -- and I can't stop scratching it. I assumed until yesterday that it had gone away (a Mother Dirt miracle?), because there's been no discomfort for a week. But now that I know it's lifting off my scalp, I want it gone and can't help but coax it along, so to speak.

The result is chunks that stick to my greasy hair. At lunch, our managing editor says she can see flakes all around my ear. Later in the day, as I glance in the mirror, I see it sprinkled all along my hairline. I almost don't go to the supermarket after work because I know people standing in line behind me will be staring at my scalp. I feel extremely self-conscious, don't look around at all and barely make eye contact with the cashier.

It's been five days since I rinsed any part of my body. The crazy part: I no longer feel like I need it. Though my armpits continue to radiate a dead-animal smell (and look like they're birthing furry creatures), the rest of me -- yes, even down below -- looks, feels and smells perfectly clean. That dirty tackiness is gone. I haven't had a single pimple since this whole experiment began, and my feet are the softest I can remember (even my husband notices).

Meanwhile, Jessica notices that her body hair (we've got a lot of it now) is silky-soft and her skin is rejuvenating at warp speed. Her acne is clearing up and leaving no marks where she picked at it.

Jessica and I have begun to realize something huge: We don't actually need soap to stay clean. When we rinse our action zones with water, we feel as clean as if we'd just lathered up. We wonder if the same might be true about shampoo and decide that, for the rest of the experiment, we'll rinse our hair as well.

Since hair is already dead, there's no need to grow a culture in our strands -- just our scalp. Technically, we could have been washing the ends of our hair without ruining our experiment, but the beauty editors in us want to know if we actually even need shampoo. Up until the late 1800s, people washed their hair monthly; daily shampooing took off only in the 1970s. Shampoo-free advocates (no 'poo for short) claim baking soda and apple cider vinegar, or even just water, is all you need. We'll see about that.

I kneel on the floor alongside my tub, dunk my head under the faucet and work water through my hair for the first time in over three weeks. My hands become slick with grease. When I put a hand on the bottom of the tub to steady myself, I slip from all the oil. My hair smells like a wet dog.

Later in the afternoon, I can't tell if my hair is still wet or just greasy. It's ropey and tacky, like a dirty mop, and looks that way, too. My husband gets home from a business trip, pulls me in by the back of my head for a kiss and recoils. "Your hair feels like seaweed -- off a dead person."

I am my stinkiest today by far, killing all notions that my body would adjust and my sweat would become less putrid. The smell of Jessica and me together is overpowering, even to me. "Jessica, we stink." The rest of the team nods in agreement.

Rank pits aside, Jessica and I feel conflicted about showering tomorrow. I love that when it's time for bed, I can just mist, brush my teeth and hit the sack. I also sleep in 45 minutes longer than I used to -- and still get out the door early.

Still, we've decided to go right back to our old routines to see how our skin will react. After a month of cultivating a colony of good bacteria, we are sad to wash it down the drain.

My psoriasis is magically gone -- no more shedding, flaking or itching. Jessica's skin looks better than it has in months -- not a single blemish. She's worried that going back to beauty products will make her clear skin revolt. I fear my psoriasis will flare up again.