

There is a special kind of beauty in traditions that have lasted centuries. The smell of oils, the soft clink of a clay pot opening, the slow, familiar way something is rubbed into the skin. Across the Arab world, beauty has always been close to nature. It is about care, about slowing down, about using what is already around you. These old products still hold that same calm rhythm, even now.
In Morocco, markets often have small pots of red powder tucked between baskets and spices. That is aker fassi. It comes from crushed poppy petals and dried pomegranate rind. A little water turns it into a natural tint for lips or cheeks, the kind that looks soft and real rather than painted on. The smell is faintly floral, with an earthy edge. There is nothing polished about it, but it leaves the skin glowing, and that’s enough.
Long before modern make-up counters, people used ithmid kohl. It is a fine mineral powder, often applied with a slender stick that glides along the lash line. The finish is subtle, giving the eyes a quiet depth. In older times, it was believed to cool and protect the eyes in harsh sunlight. Applying it takes a steady hand and a few quiet seconds — a small, grounding ritual at the start of the day.

Usma oil is made from green leaves pressed into a thick herbal liquid. It is known for helping hair grow stronger and darker, though it asks for time and regular use. The smell is sharp at first, but fades as it sinks in. A few drops massaged into brows or the hairline can bring back shine and softness. It does its work quietly, little by little.
Aleppo soap comes from Syria and is made with olive and laurel oils. It has been produced in much the same way for hundreds of years. The soap feels solid in the hand and smells faintly of plants after rain. It cleans without drying the skin, leaving a balanced, calm feeling instead of tightness. There is honesty in its simplicity, nothing fancy or rushed.
In many Arab homes, fragrance carries memory. Mukhammaria, a thick oil, and oudh, a resin burned for its smoke, are used to perfume both skin and fabric. The scent shifts as the hours pass, deep and warm, never sharp. It settles into clothes, hair, the corners of a room. Some describe it as a presence rather than a perfume.
These are not quick beauty fixes. They belong to slower days, when care meant touch and time. Each one connects you to something older, something that has survived because it still works. There is comfort in that — a reminder that beauty can be simple, steady, and made by hand.
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(Written by Esha Aphale)