I tried a Persian beauty ritual that comes with a warning.
Sefidab is chalky, Persian and gloriously old-school. I also once mistook washing powder for it.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be smuggling powdered animal fat across continents, I’d have laughed. Yet here I am, a new mum over 40, utterly obsessed with sefidab (or “rooshoor”, if you want your exfoliation to sound vaguely Parisian, and better than what is essentially me attacking myself with a chalky white block). It is the Iranian exfoliator that has become my weekly ritual for keeping my skin from looking like I wrestled Cyrus for 12 hours straight.
I’ve never been shy about trying anything that promises a few extra minutes of youth, or at least a smoother forehead, so when I discovered sefidab during a visit to my in-laws in Iran, I was hyper-focused on it. The idea of an ancient beauty secret, cheaper and sounding better than a microdermabrasion session, was too good to resist.
Could this peculiar Persian beauty ritual really earn a place in my bathroom?
I wanted to find out whether an old-fashioned exfoliator could compete with the increasingly complicated world of modern beauty treatments.
THE EXPERIMENT
Here’s the thing about sefidab: it’s not gentle. It’s a white, chalky stone made from animal fat and natural minerals, applied with a kiseh, a traditional exfoliating mitt. Vegans, vegetarians, or anyone allergic to animal products, avert your eyes.
The paste is made by mixing the powdered minerals with water until smooth, melting the animal fat, and combining the two before letting it set in small casts. There’s a certain satisfaction in using something that predates Instagram beauty gurus, 12-step skincare routines and detox teas by quite some margin.
I start in the shower, wetting the sefidab and rubbing it onto my kiseh. Then, in circular motions, I work it into my skin. Dead skin, toxins, the lingering stress of a week juggling a full-time job and a child, they’re all gone.
The circular motion is gentler than the back-and-forth scrubbing I used to do, and the result is soft, radiant skin that doesn’t scream “new mum over 40.”
THE COST
It’s far cheaper than high-end microdermabrasion, which is part of the appeal.
I’ve learned to stock up whenever family visits from Iran. Every little parcel is beauty in powdered form, delivered with love, and a reminder that some of the best things in life aren’t available on Amazon.
The body is where it really earns its keep
On my body, this is where sefidab really earns its keep. It is unapologetically physical exfoliation. My skin feels smoother afterwards, particularly on the rougher areas that no expensive bottle in my bathroom ever seems quite able to achieve. And I’ve yet to find a salon treatment that leaves me feeling this indulgent without the accompanying bill.
The face, however, is another matter
The face, of course, is another matter. Sefidab is harsh, so I coat my face in coconut oil first, think of it as a safety net against minor abrasions. Then I scrub in careful circles across my forehead, cheeks, and chin before rinsing.
It’s invigorating in a slightly shocking way, but somehow leaves me feeling more awake than my morning coffee.
The time I exfoliated with washing powder
Not every experiment goes smoothly.
During a stay in Rasht, in northern Iran, with H’s khalleh, I spotted a little pile of crushed white powder on the bathroom sink. It looked suspiciously like sefidab. And because hospitality is taken VERY seriously when you’re visiting family in Iran, I immediately thought: Oh, look at that. She’s even crushed the sefidab for me.
What a result. No wrestling with the crumbly white block today. No preparation. Just apply and get on with it. So I did. The smell was slightly off. The texture was harsher than usual. But I carried on, assuming this was a more expensive version.
It was only later that H revealed the truth. I hadn’t been exfoliating with sefidab.
I’d been exfoliating with washing powder. My skin survived. My pride, considerably less so. It was a useful reminder that curiosity is wonderful. It just helps to establish what the white powder is before you put it on your face.
THE DISCOVERY
I’m drawn to sefidab because it doesn’t promise overnight miracles; it promises a moment of self-care. The smell, the gritty texture, the precise circular motions, it’s quite meditative.
There’s something satisfying about using something tactile and unpolished. No glossy bottle or complicated ingredients list designed to sound like a chemistry degree. No algorithm telling me that I apparently need another product. Just a little white block, a kiseh and some time in the shower. Sheer bliss!
Why, in an age of elaborate skincare routines, am I so attached to a grubby little white block passed between generations?
Perhaps because sefidab asks almost nothing of me. There are no serums to layer in the correct order, no ingredients I need a chemistry degree to pronounce and no algorithm insisting I’ve been doing my face wrong for the past 50 years. It is a little white block, a kiseh and a ritual women have used long before beauty came in expensive bottles. Mine arrives tucked into suitcases from Iran, lovingly gifted by family rather than delivered by a beauty subscription. And I think that is part of its appeal. I’m not just exfoliating my skin. I’m holding on to something wonderfully ordinary that has travelled through families, bathrooms and generations, and somehow found its way into mine.
Every little parcel is beauty in powdered form
What I learned from using it
- Start slow: Use coconut oil on your face and focus on circular motions. Don’t just assume traditional means gentle.
- Invest in a proper kiseh: A proper kiseh is part of this traditional ritual and is a must. Avoid broken or irritated skin.
- Test patch: Patch-test before using it more widely, especially if you’re prone to allergies. Animal fat is fabulous for some, disastrous for others.
- Ritualise: Use it once a week. If your skin is sensitive, treat this as an exfoliant rather than an endurance sport.
Would I keep it?
Absolutely.
Would I recommend sefidab to everyone? Probably not. But for those willing to step outside the glossy world of mainstream beauty products, and their comfort zone, it’s effective.
Next time I see a mysterious white powder on a bathroom sink, I’ll ask twice before applying it.
Old-school, affordable and surprisingly addictive. One star deducted for my washing-powder incident.
Would I spend my money on it again?
Yes. Although, technically, I’d rather spend someone else’s money on it because the best kind arrives in a suitcase from Iran. Just ensure you don’t crush it into mysterious white powder before you send it.
Join the conversation
Is there a beauty ritual in your family or culture that you still swear by, even if the rest of the world finds it a bit weird?
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Saffron & Cyrus is an independent women’s editorial publication with a recognisable voice, real-life perspective, a defined midlife audience and a commercial model built around useful, relevant partnerships.
