I tried a Persian beauty ritual that comes with a warning.

Sefidab is Persian chalky, old-school and I 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 to sound fancy), the Iranian exfoliator that has become my weekly ritual for keeping my skin, eyes, and hands from looking like I wrestled a toddler 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 intrigued. The idea of an ancient beauty secret, cheaper 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 kind of satisfaction in using a product that predates Instagram beauty gurus and detox teas by several millennia.

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

It’s not just a skin-saver: it works wonders on clogged pores, cellulite, stretch marks, and even those annoying fine lines around my eyes. And I’ve yet to find a salon treatment that leaves me feeling this indulgent without the accompanying bill.

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, my crazy brain just 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!

Every little parcel is beauty in powdered form

How I use it now

• Start slow: Use coconut oil on your face and focus on circular motions.
• Invest in a proper kiseh: Your hands deserve a break from scrubbing.
• Test patch: Especially if you’re prone to allergies. Animal fat is fabulous for some, disastrous for others.
• Ritualise: Use it once a week.

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.

If you’re interested in trying traditional Persian beauty products for yourself, I’m open to working with relevant beauty and wellbeing brands on honest, experience-led content.

Join the conversation

Have you ever tried an unusual or traditional beauty ritual? Share your experiences and favourite beauty hacks in the comments below.