top 8 Moroccan beauty secrets
For generations, Moroccan women have been admired for their glowing skin, thick hair, and timeless natural beauty. Their secrets aren’t found in expensive creams or complicated routines, but in simple, powerful rituals passed down from mother to daughter. From the hammam to herbal treatments, Morocco’s beauty traditions are deeply rooted in nature and culture — and they truly work.
In this post, I’m sharing some of the most treasured Moroccan beauty practices that I grew up with and still swear by today. Each one is a little piece of Morocco, and I hope they inspire you to bring a touch of this ancient beauty wisdom into your own routine.
1. Khol: The Original Smokey Eye (That Also Keeps Evil Away)
Look, I know what you’re thinking – kohl liner is just… eyeliner, right? Wrong. Khol is the OG, the grandmother of all eye makeup, and it’s been making Moroccan women look mysteriously gorgeous since forever. This isn’t your drugstore pencil that smudges by lunchtime. Traditional khol is this intense black powder made from antimony or galena, and when my grandmother would line my eyes with it as a kid, she’d mutter prayers about keeping away the evil eye. Beauty and protection? Honestly, modern makeup could never.
The application is an art form. You use this tiny wooden stick (a mirwed), dip it into the powder, and then – steady hands required – line your eyes while simultaneously looking like Cleopatra’s cooler cousin. It creates this soft, smudgy, impossibly sultry look that makes your eyes pop without looking like you tried too hard. The best part? It’s actually good for your eyes. My mum swears it strengthens lashes and keeps eyes healthy, and honestly, I’ve never seen her without it and her lashes are ridiculous, so who am I to argue?
Now that I’m in Australia, I hoard little pots of khol like they’re gold whenever I go home for a visits. I’ve tried Western kohl pencils and while they’re convenient, they don’t have that same intensity or staying power. Real khol melts into your lash line, darkens throughout the day in the most flattering way, and gives you that “I woke up like this” vibe that takes Western beauty gurus seventeen products to achieve. Plus, there’s something about putting on khol that makes me feel connected to every Moroccan woman who’s ever done the same generations back. It’s not just makeup; it’s heritage in a tiny pot.
2. Argan Oil: Liquid Gold (And I’m Not Being Dramatic)
Okay, so argan oil has had this massive glow-up in the Western beauty world over the last decade, and I’m sitting here in Australia and even back in Japan watching it get marketed as this exotic luxury item for like $40 a tiny bottle, and I’m just… laughing? Crying? Both? Because back home, this stuff was in everything. My mum would slather it on our hair, our skin, even drizzle the culinary version on bread for breakfast. It was just… normal. Now it’s fancy. The irony.
Here’s the thing about argan oil – it comes from the argan tree, which only grows in southwestern Morocco, and the process of making it is labour-intensive. Berber women crack open the nuts by hand (the goats climb the trees and eat the fruit, but that’s a whole other story), extract the kernels, roast and grind them. It’s work. And the result? This golden, nutty-smelling oil that is genuinely magical. My hair was thick and shiny growing up, and I 100% credit the weekly argan oil masks my mum would force on us. We’d sit there with oil-soaked hair wrapped in towels, complaining about the smell, not realizing we were getting a treatment people now pay hundreds for at salons.
For skin? Unmatched. My mother had skin like butter, and so does my sister, well into her seventies, and her secret was argan oil morning and night. No fancy serums, no ten-step routines – just pure argan oil massaged into damp skin. It’s packed with vitamin E and fatty acids, absorbs beautifully without being greasy, and works on literally everything – dry patches, stretch marks, even as a lip treatment. I use it on my face now and my Australian friends ask what my skincare routine is, expecting some elaborate answer. “Moroccan oil and prayer,” I tell them. They think I’m joking. I’m not. That’s the real secret Moroccan women have known forever. We just didn’t realize the rest of the world would catch on and make it trendy.
3. Henna: The Ultimate Multi-Tasker (Hair Dye, Art, and Basically Magic)
Henna nights were the event growing up. Like, forget your fancy spa days – we had aunties gathered in someone’s living room, mixing henna powder with tea and lemon juice until it smelled like earth and summer, gossiping for hours while intricate designs dried on our hands. Every wedding, every Eid, every celebration that mattered involved henna. And the best part? While everyone’s fawning over the beautiful mehndi designs, henna’s also been keeping Moroccan women’s hair thick, shiny, and naturally conditioned for literally centuries.
Let’s talk hair first because this is where henna really shines – pun intended. My mum would mix henna powder into this paste, plop it on our heads (it’s cold, it’s gritty, it’s not glamorous), wrap us up in plastic bags, and make us wait for hours. We looked ridiculous. But the results? Gorgeous auburn tones, hair so soft and strong you could feel the difference immediately, and this incredible shine that no bottle conditioner has ever replicated for me in Japan or here in Australia. Henna coats each strand, filling in gaps and weak spots, which is why older Moroccan women have such enviably thick hair. It’s not genetics – well, maybe partly – but mostly it’s decades of henna treatments.
And then there’s the body art side. Getting henna designs on your hands and feet is this whole sensory experience – the smell (earthy, slightly medicinal, weirdly comforting), the cool paste tickling as it’s applied, then the agonizing wait for it to dry and crack off, trying not to smudge it because you know your aunt spent twenty minutes on those tiny dots. The darker the stain, the more the bride-to-be is loved by her in-laws, or so the saying goes. I miss henna nights so much. Here, I can buy the powder online, but it’s not the same without the chaos of everyone together, someone’s toddler getting henna fingerprints on the couch, tea brewing constantly, laughter echoing. Henna wasn’t just beauty treatment – it was community, tradition, and a little bit of magic all rolled into one thick weird looking paste.
4. Black Beldi Soap: The Hammam Essential That Looks Like Motor Oil (But Works Like Magic)
Right, so if I tried to explain black beldi soap to my Australian friends, they’d think I’ve lost it. “You rub this black… goop… all over yourself in a steam room and then scrub your skin off with a rough glove?” Yes. Exactly that. And it’s glorious. Beldi soap is this olive-based black soap that has the consistency of soft butter and honestly looks a bit concerning if you’ve never seen it before. It’s dark, it’s thick, and it smells intensely of eucalyptus and olives. But this stuff is the backbone of the traditional Moroccan hammam experience, and it’s why Moroccan women have skin that glows.
Here’s how it works: you steam yourself until you’re basically a human dumpling, slather this black soap all over, wait about ten minutes while it softens everything, rince it off and then – and this is the satisfying part – you scrub with a kessa glove (that rough exfoliating mitt) and watch literal rolls of dead skin come off. I know, I know, it sounds gross. But it’s SO satisfying. When my mum and sister took me to the hammam as a kid, I was mortified. Now? I dream about it. My skin after a proper beldi soap session was softer than a baby’s, glowing, and felt like I’d shed an entire layer of Melbourne winter.
The soap itself is made from olive oil and black olives that have been macerated in salt and potash – basically it’s saponified but keeps all the good stuff that makes it incredibly moisturizing despite being, you know, soap. It doesn’t lather like Western soap, which threw me off at first. It just sits there, doing its thing, breaking down all the dead skin and grime. I bought some online here in Australia and tried to recreate the hammam experience in my bathroom with the shower running hot. It’s not the same without the marble slabs and the hammam lady who scrubs you within an inch of your life while chatting about her daughter’s wedding, but it still works. My skin drinks it up, and for a few blissful minutes, I’m back home, steam rising, feeling like I’m part of a tradition that goes back generations. Plus, nothing – and I mean nothing Western beauty has thrown at me gets my skin as soft as beldi soap and a kessa glove. Nothing.
5. Ghassoul: The Clay That Does Everything (Seriously, Everything)
Ghassoul – or rhassoul, depending on who you ask – is this mineral-rich clay that comes from the Atlas Mountains, and it was basically the Swiss Army knife of Moroccan beauty routines. Hair mask? Ghassoul. Face mask? Ghassoul. Body treatment? You guessed it. My mum had a permanent container of this stuff in the bathroom, and we used it for literally everything. It’s this gorgeous grey-brown powder that turns into the silkiest paste when you mix it with water or rose water, and the texture is so smooth it feels luxurious even though it’s literally just… dirt. Fancy, mineral-packed, ancient dirt, but still.
For hair, ghassoul is an absolute game-changer. Mix it into a paste, massage it into your scalp and through your hair, let it sit for 20 minutes, and rinse. No shampoo needed. It cleanses without stripping, absorbs oil like a sponge, and leaves your hair soft and bouncy without any of that squeaky-clean dryness. My hair was never healthier than when I was using ghassoul regularly. Now in Australia, I’m back on the Western shampoo train and my hair is… fine. Just fine. Not that thick, glossy, “what do you use??” hair I had back home. I’ve ordered ghassoul online a few times, but I always feel like I’m rationing it because shipping from Morocco isn’t cheap so now I just decided to wait till I get home, soooon!!!.
As a face mask? Chef’s kiss. It draws out impurities, tightens pores, and leaves your skin unbelievably soft without that tight, angry feeling some clay masks give you. My mother would mix hers with orange blossom water and a bit of argan oil for extra moisture, and her skin was flawless. Like, she’d be sitting there in her jellaba, face covered in grey clay, looking like a glamorous swamp creature, dispensing life advice while we waited for it to dry. The beauticians here in Australia keep trying to sell me fancy French clay masks for $50, and I’m like… I know what real clay is supposed to do, and this ain’t it. Ghassoul is gentle but effective, it’s been used for over a thousand years, and honestly? If it was good enough for Berber queens, it’s good enough for me.
6. Rose Water: The Moroccan Cure-All (That Actually Works)
If there’s one thing that was absolutely everywhere in my childhood, it was rose water. And I mean everywhere. My mum kept bottles of it in the bathroom, the kitchen, her handbag. It wasn’t just beauty product; it was hospitality, skincare, cooking ingredient, and general life enhancer all in one. When guests came over, my mum would sprinkle rose water on their hands as a welcome. Fancy dinner? Rose water in the desserts. Bad skin day? Rose water. Puffy eyes? Rose water. Honestly, if rose water could fix a broken heart, she probably would’ve tried that too.
The smell alone is enough to transport me straight back home. It’s delicate, floral without being overwhelming, and just… comforting. Moroccan rose water, especially from the Dadès Valley (the “Valley of Roses”), is the real deal – none of that synthetic fragrance nonsense. After cleansing, my mum would soak cotton pads in rose water and press them on our faces. It’s cooling, soothing, balances your skin’s pH, and gives you this subtle glow. I had no idea this was special until I moved to Japan and saw people buying tiny bottles of “hydrating facial mists” for ridiculous prices. That’s just… rose water. We’ve been doing this forever.
My mother used to mix rose water with ghassoul for face masks, add it to her hair rinses for shine and that gorgeous scent, and dab it on her pulse points like perfume. She swore it kept her skin youthful and her mood balanced – rose water is naturally calming and anti-inflammatory, so she wasn’t wrong. Now here in Australia, I buy it from Middle Eastern grocers and hoard it like treasure. I keep a spray bottle in the fridge for hot days, use it as a toner every morning, and sometimes I just spray it around my room when I’m homesick. It’s not quite the same as being in a Moroccan home where the scent just hangs in the air naturally, but it helps. Rose water is gentle, versatile, affordable, and has been a Moroccan beauty staple for centuries. Honestly, if you’re not using it, you’re missing out on one of the simplest, most effective beauty secrets out there.
7. The Kessa Glove: Your New Best Friend
Okay, let’s talk about the kessa glove , or KISS as we call it back home, that rough, textured exfoliating mitt that looks innocent but is basically a skin-transforming weapon in the right hands. If beldi soap is the setup, the kessa is the punchline. This thing is traditionally made from crepe fabric or goat hair (yes, really), and it’s rougher than any exfoliating tool you’ve used in the West. The first time you use one properly, you’ll be equal parts horrified and amazed at the amount of dead skin that rolls off your body. It’s like watching a snake shed, except it’s you, and it’s deeply satisfying.
The technique matters. You can’t just scrub dry skin – that’s a recipe for irritation and sadness. You steam first (ideally in a hammam, realistically in a hot shower), apply your beldi soap, let it sit, rinse, and then you go in with the kessa using firm, long strokes. Not gentle little circles – we’re talking proper scrubbing. The dead skin literally pills up and rolls off in these grey… worm-like things (I know, gorgeous visual, but it’s TRUE). The last time I went home for a visit 3 years ago and my sister took me to the hammam and the hammam lady went to town on me with a kessa, I thought she was trying to sand me down to my bones. But when she was done? My skin was so soft I couldn’t stop touching my own arms like a weirdo.
Of course I brought one back with me and my housemate saw it and thought it was a dish scrubber. I mean… not entirely wrong in terms of texture, but the results are wildly different. I use mine once a week in the shower – it’s my little ritual that makes me feel connected to home. Western loofahs and exfoliating gloves are cute and all, but they don’t even come close to the deep, thorough exfoliation a kessa gives you. Your skin will be brighter, smoother, and weirdly glowy. Plus there’s something empowering about scrubbing away a week’s worth of stress and dead skin in one go. Just start gently if you’re new to it – the kessa doesn’t mess around, and neither should you. Your skin will thank you, even if it’s slightly traumatized at first.
8. Savon kaff: The Indestructible Soap That Outlasts Everything
Okay, so there’s black beldi soap for the hammam, and then there’s the other soap – that massive, pale greenish-beige cube of olive oil soap that sat by every sink in Morocco and seemed to last approximately forever. You know the one. It’s hard as a rock when you first get it, weighs about as much as a brick, and your mum would just plonk it there and it would slowly, slowly wear down over months. Maybe years. I’m convinced we had the same cube in our bathroom for my entire childhood. This stuff is the definition of “they don’t make them like they used to, although I’m pretty sure it is still around, or I hope so.
It’s pure, simple, and completely no-nonsense – just olive oil, salt, and lye, saponified into this incredibly gentle, moisturizing soap. No fragrance (well, just that clean, slightly earthy olive smell), no fancy ingredients, no packaging trying to convince you it’ll change your life. It just… works. We used it for everything – hands, face, body, even laundry in a pinch. My mother swore by it, said all these modern soaps with their perfumes and chemicals were ruining people’s skin. She’d use her cube soap every day, and again, her skin was incredible. There’s a pattern here with Moroccan mothers and their flawless skin, and it’s not expensive creams – it’s this simple, traditional stuff.
The best part? It never dried out your skin the way Western soaps do. Olive oil soap is naturally glycerin-rich, so it cleanses without stripping. After washing, your skin feels clean but not tight or squeaky. I’ve tried to find equivalent bars here in Australia – there are olive oil soaps, sure, but they’re not the same. They’re too soft, too perfumed, too precious. The Moroccan cube is humble and utilitarian but does the job better than anything I’ve found in fancy boutiques. The memory of that cube sitting by the sink and in the shower room is a little piece of home, slowly wearing away, reminding me that sometimes the simplest things really are the best.
