Hung on a rod in a guest bathroom, folded into a precise tri-fold that no household member could reproduce twice, the decorative hand towel exists in a state of untouchability enforced by unspoken household law. Its embroidered edge, often a monogram, a floral border, or a small tasteful bird, is not meant to meet wet hands. A separate, uglier towel does that job, hidden beneath the sink for actual use.
Guests, sensing the towel's ceremonial nature, wipe their hands on their own trousers rather than risk disturbing it. It is laundered rarely, since it is never soiled, and so develops instead a faint museum smell of stored linen and lavender sachet. It performs a single function flawlessly: signaling, to anyone who enters, that some care has been taken here. Its failure to absorb anything is, by this measure, entirely beside the point.