Hello my dear friends. They washed their
private parts with hibiscus flowers and
pomegranate leaves, scraped their entire
bodies with bronze knives, and perfume
their toenails before bed. Ancient
Egyptian royal women considered hygiene
a ritual far beyond the imagination of
modern men. Their days revolved around
scent, touch, and privacy. All done
behind curtains and carved stone doors.
Trained servants were not allowed to
look. Disposable linen was burned.
Nothing was random and everything
smelled of power. Tonight, you will step
gently into a world where cleanliness is
not a habit, but a royal duty, a sacred
law. So, before you get comfortable,
take a moment to like the video and
subscribe, but only if you really like
what I do here. Now, dim the lights,
maybe turn on a fan for that soothing
background, and let's embark on this
journey together tonight.
If medieval queens had to dip their
hands in cold shared basins, Egyptian
royal women began the day with warm
water and silence. There were no bells,
no loud instructions, and certainly no
rush.
The moment the sky started to lighten,
two servants entered the sleeping
chamber carrying polished ceramic bowls
filled with water infused with lotus.
They strolled barefoot across the cool
stone floor so the sound wouldn't
disturb the person still lying in bed.
This wasn't just the beginning of a new
day. It was a fixed part of a routine
that hadn't changed for years. The woman
sat upright in bed without saying a
word. She didn't need to ask for
anything. Everything had already been
prepared. A towel made of fine linen had
been soaked in jasmine oil overnight. It
was gently lifted and used to wipe her
hands, one finger at a time, starting
from the tips, moving down to the palm
and ending at the wrist. The towel was
then folded in a specific way so that a
clean surface touched each section of
skin. When finished, a second towel was
used to absorb any leftover moisture. It
was soft and warm, just like the hands
that wiped with it. No one in that room
questioned why it had to be done this
way. That was the difference between
habit and hierarchy. There was a cloth
just for the left hand and another for
the right. A mistake in order or
handling wasn't just clumsy. It was
disrespectful.
These towels were washed separately,
dried in the sun, and folded in threes
before being placed in the storage chest
the night before. The jasmine oil was
measured drop by drop. Never too strong,
never wasted. Even the bowls had rules.
They were not reused in another room.
Once the washing was done, the water was
carried out and poured into a bed of
pomegranate shrubs near the eastern
garden. The hands were only the first
part.
Next came the arms. Then a quick
inspection of the elbows for any signs
of dryness. If needed, a drop of oil was
dabbed in place. Nothing excessive, just
enough to avoid roughness. This wasn't a
treatment. It was maintenance, and it
was expected to be done every single
day. By the time the hands and arms were
finished, the morning light had changed
slightly. Thin beams of sunlight passed
through carved lattis windows. They
didn't bring heat yet, just enough light
to give the room a soft glow. The air
still held the coolness of night. The
room remained quiet. No one spoke unless
spoken to. The royal woman didn't need
to give instructions. Everyone already
knew what came next. A new robe was
brought out from a stone chest. It was
freshly pressed, folded tightly, and
laid across the servant's forearms. She
held it using a separate cloth so no
skin would touch it before it reached
the queen's shoulders. The old robe was
taken away, folded immediately, and sent
to be cleaned. Nothing was left lying
around, not even for a second.
Then came the hair. A different servant
stepped behind her with a comb carved
from ivory. The comb had belonged to her
mother and her mother before that. It
wasn't decorative. It had one job, to
move slowly through the hair without
causing pain. The comb was dipped in a
light oil made from crushed lotus and
sandalwood. Just a drop or two, spread
along the teeth with a clean fingertip.
Then the brushing began. Long, slow
strokes, starting from the ends and
moving up. Never rushed, never tugged.
Compared to today's 10-minute routines
and dry shampoo, this felt like
preparing for a ceremony, not just a new
day. She didn't speak. She didn't need
to look in a mirror. Her eyes remained
half closed. The movements of the
servant's hands were so familiar, she
could tell which maid was brushing her
just by how steady the strokes felt.
Some days the brushing took 10 minutes,
other days longer.
It depended on how the hair had been
wrapped the night before and whether the
weather had made it frizzy. But
regardless of the condition, it was done
the same way. Her shoulders remained
still. Her neck never tensed. This was
part of the process. A daily hour spent
not just on looking clean, but on
feeling calm. The brushing helped her
wake up, but not with noise, with
repetition, with scent, with fingers
that had been trained not to move too
quickly. There was no room for rushing,
no tolerance for hesitation. The hair
was not styled yet. That would come
later. For now, it was enough to be
brushed, oiled, and rewrapped in a light
linen scarf to hold its shape. The scarf
had been pressed flat the night before
and folded into a narrow triangle. It
was tied at the back of her head,
leaving the ends tucked into the folds
of her robe. Once her hair was secure
and her hands were dry, the servant
brought forward a small clay dish with a
few drops of myrrh oil. This was dabbed
gently onto her wrists and behind her
ears. No strong scent, just enough to be
noticed when someone stood very close. I
always find it surprising how quiet
power can be. In that room, no one
shouted, and yet everyone moved exactly
as expected. At this point, the morning
cleansing was complete. The bowls were
removed. The towels were taken to be
washed in a different section of the
palace. The robe was checked one final
time for wrinkles. Nothing was out of
place. No object had been touched twice.
The entire routine had taken less than
an hour, but it had set the tone for
everything that followed. There was no
breakfast yet, no conversation, no
official duties, just a body that had
been made ready to face the day without
needing to ask for anything. That was
the mark of control, of routine, and of
royal status. Today, some people get
ready by scrolling through their phones.
In ancient Egypt, someone else combed
your hair while you kept your eyes half
shut. Next, we'll follow her into the
bath chamber, where a carved stone tub
filled with oils, herbs, and flower
water awaits in nearperfect silence.
After the morning cleaning in her
chamber, the royal woman did not go
straight to her duties. Instead, she
stepped into a different space, one
intended for the complete cleansing of
the body. It wasn't a public bath house
or a communal washing room. It was a
quiet stonewalled chamber built deep
within the palace. designed to stay cool
during the heat of the day. Inside stood
a shallow bath carved entirely from
white limestone, smooth to the touch and
slightly cool even in warm weather. The
rim of the tub was wide enough to sit
on, and the base was slightly sloped so
that water drained slowly to one end.
Along the outer walls of the tub were
carvings of the goddess Isis. Her wings
were outstretched, her face calm. These
weren't decorations for beauty. They
were meant to protect the bather and
remind her that purification had a
spiritual purpose. The bath itself was
more than just a way to remove sweat or
dust. It was part of what made her
worthy of her role. Servants had started
preparing the water before sunrise. It
was not drawn from a well, but collected
from ceramic vessels filled the night
before and left to settle. Once poured
into the bath, it was warmed with heated
stones. Not boiling, just warm enough to
steam gently when touched. Into this
water, the servants mixed a blend of
ingredients, a few drops of lotus oil, a
spoonful of honey, crushed mint leaves,
thin slices of dried papyrus root. The
scent was strong but not overwhelming.
Lotus was the main note, sweet, floral,
and slightly earthy. The honey thickened
the water slightly, making it feel
heavier against the skin. The mint gave
it a sharp edge that cleared the air.
The mixture was stirred with a wooden
paddle until the oil floated in small
swirls across the surface. The woman
stepped into the bath slowly, holding
onto a polished stone ledge that had
been placed just for this purpose. She
did not rush.
She sat carefully, adjusting herself
until the water came just below her
shoulders. Her back leaned against the
curve of the tub. Her eyes stayed open,
but barely. The heat and the scent had a
way of softening everything. There were
no candles. The light came from a high
window where sunlight filtered in
through thin linen stretched across the
opening. Modern spars try to offer this
kind of calm, but they often forget the
part where no one speaks and no one
checks a phone. The servant stayed
nearby but didn't watch. They prepared
the next items instead. One held a
long-handled ladle carved from acacia
wood. Another readied a small jar filled
with crushed barley grains mixed into a
paste. A third set of cloth near the
edge of the tub, folded into a perfect
square. Everything was timed so that no
step felt like waiting. The woman began
by cupping water over her shoulders,
letting it fall down her chest and back.
Her hair had been rewrapped for this
purpose. The cloth would be removed only
after the first rinsing. When it was
finally taken off, her hair fell into
the water gently, and the oil began to
loosen from the strands. The servant
stepped forward, poured a slow stream of
water over her head, and began to apply
the paste to her scalp. The mixture was
both cleaned and conditioned. It was
left to sit for a few minutes while the
body continued to soak. Afterward, the
paste was rinsed off with clean water,
not from the tub, but from a separate
jug. Everything was kept separate.
Nothing touched the body more than once.
Clean water followed clean hands. Dirty
water was never reused. When the rinsing
was finished, the woman rose slowly and
a soft cloth was draped over her
shoulders. It absorbed the water without
dragging against the skin. I sometimes
wonder if anyone today would have the
patience to sit in a bath that was
prepared for hours just to be used for
20 minutes. Once dry, the next stage
began. Oil was applied from head to toe,
not poured but dabbed. A small ceramic
dish held a blend of oils. Sesame for
strength, moringa for softness, a hint
of cedar for scent. A gloved servant
used both hands, moving from the back of
the neck downward. Each stroke was slow.
The oil was warmed in her palms first.
It was never rubbed in, just pressed
gently into the skin. The arms were
coated first, then the back, then the
chest and stomach. Each toe was seen to.
Even the heels were oiled carefully. The
goal wasn't to make the body shine. It
was to keep the skin soft, unbroken, and
protected from the dry desert air. The
soles of the feet got a bit more
attention as they bore the weight of
walking even inside palace walls. A
second servant stood nearby with clean
cloths, ready to blot any excess oil
before it soaked into the bedding or
robes. This process was done daily,
sometimes twice. If the weather was hot
or if the woman had to appear in court,
it wasn't considered excessive.
It was expected. Any member of the royal
household who skipped the bath without
reason would quickly be noticed. Skin
that was too dry, too dull, or too
uneven in tone raised quite a few
questions. Was she tired? Was she ill?
Was she slipping compared to that?
Forgetting to moisturize after a shower
feels like a minor offense. Once the
oiling was complete, the woman remained
standing for a few more minutes, just
enough time for the skin to absorb what
it could. A final cloth was brought to
cover her loosely while she walked back
to her room. Her hair would be dealt
with later. For now, the body was clean,
warm, and scented. The tub was drained
slowly using a clay siphon. The used
water was not poured out carelessly. It
was taken outside past the herb gardens
and poured into a special trench lined
with sand and smooth stones. No one
spoke. No one asked questions. They had
done this every day, every week, for as
long as they could remember.
Next, she would sit before a mirror, not
to admire her reflection, but to face
the careful shaping of her eyebrows and
the silent ritual of removing every
stray hair. The oiling was finished, but
the routine was far from over. After the
bath, after the drying, and after the
skin had fully absorbed its layer of
warm oil came the most delicate part of
the morning hair removal. In ancient
Egypt, smooth skin wasn't simply a
matter of style. It was an expectation,
especially within royal circles. Every
visible patch of skin from the ankles to
the neck was kept free of hair. Not for
decoration, not for ceremony, but for
hygiene, clarity, and status.
A separate room within the bath chamber
was set up for this. It was smaller,
dimmer, and cooler. The floor had a
narrow channel that allowed water and
residue to drain away easily. A low
stone bench covered in folded linen was
placed in the center. The woman would
sit upright, back supported, hands
placed on her lap. She didn't need to
speak or move. The servants already knew
where to begin. The tools were simple
but precise. A small bronze razor,
narrow and slightly curved, lay on a
clothcovered tray. Next to it was a
small ceramic bowl of warmed beeswax. A
cloth bundle contained pieces of linen
heated earlier and kept under a cover to
hold their warmth. These weren't random
rags. Each cloth was cut to the same
size and assigned to a specific area of
the body. Some people today complain
about shaving their legs once a week.
Egyptian royals had parts of their
bodies waxed daily, sometimes twice. The
process started with the arms. A warm
cloth was applied first to open the
pores. Then, using a flat wooden stick,
a thin layer of beeswax was spread
across a section of the forearm. The wax
was left for just a few seconds before a
linen strip was pressed gently over it
and pulled off in one swift motion. The
skin beneath was immediately wiped with
oil, a blend of sesame and chundula to
reduce irritation. The process was
repeated along the rest of the arm. Then
the other legs followed. Calves, knees,
then thighs. Always in sections, always
with the same rhythm. Apply, press,
pull, clean, oil. The servants worked in
silence. They had done this too many
times to count. They moved from one limb
to the next with focus, never
hesitating, never breaking pace. Once
the larger areas were finished,
attention turned to the more sensitive
regions. The nape of the neck, the back
of the hands, the tops of the feet, even
the knuckles. These were done with the
bronze razor, not the wax. A small bowl
of warm water was kept close along with
a fresh towel and a drop of scented oil
used to clean the blade after every few
strokes. I'm always struck by how
methodical this all was. There was no
part of the body that didn't matter.
Nothing was left a chance. Even the
areas just below the jawline were
cleaned with a cloth after shaving. Then
came the face. Not all of it. Just the
brows and the hairline. Eyebrows were
never plucked randomly. They were shaped
according to palace custom. Not too
thin, not too sharp. The arch had to
follow the curve of the cheekbone. A
servant held a small copper mirror while
another carefully shaved away stray
hairs. No tweezers, only a tiny curved
blade and a steady hand. The temples
were next. Any fine hair that softened
the face was removed in a smooth line
from above the brow to the top of the
ear. It wasn't dramatic. It was subtle,
but it created a look that was
unmistakably royal. If done well, it
made the skin glow under sunlight. If
done poorly, it showed right away in
court. Each time a section was finished,
a thin veil of oil was applied to
protect the skin. The oil was made the
night before, left to rest, and warmed
slightly in the morning sun. A blend of
caster and blue lotus. It left no strong
scent, only the feeling of softness. The
servant used her fingers to pat it into
the skin, never rubbing. Compared to
today's tweezing under bad bathroom
lights, this was almost an art form.
There were no mirrors larger than the
hand, no vanity tables,
just silence, cloth, bronze, and oil.
The only sound was the light splash of
rinsing water, and the occasional flick
of the blade being cleaned. If the skin
reened in any spot, a balm was applied
immediately. If a servant's hand
trembled, she would be replaced, but
that rarely happened. Most had trained
for this task since girlhood. The woman
remained still throughout, not frozen,
just patient. She had done this almost
every day of her adult life. Her body
knew the rhythm. Her breath slowed
naturally when the blade passed close to
her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed when the
warm cloth returned. This was her quiet
hour. No need to talk, no need to think,
just step by step, patch by patch. Once
the work was done, she stood slowly,
letting the oil settle into her skin.
The bench was cleared, the used clothes
were folded into a litted basket and
taken out immediately. The blade was
cleaned again and then placed into its
storage pouch, lined with dried mint.
The wax was covered and set aside to be
replaced later.
Nothing stayed open or exposed. She
hadn't dressed yet. That came later. For
now, she stood near a low window to
cool. The skin was soft, bare, clean, no
dust, no hair, no residue, just
smoothness from ankle to eyebrow. It was
not about looking young. It was about
looking finished. Today, hair removal is
a personal choice. In the royal chambers
of ancient Egypt, it was part of being
presentable.
Next, she would choose her linen for the
day, but not before inspecting each
piece for its shade of white, because in
the palace, even the color of your towel
could signal your place. Once her skin
had been cleaned, dried, oiled, and
shaved. There was one final detail to
attend to before clothing could begin.
It wasn't perfume nor jewelry. It was
linen, clean linen, the kind that didn't
smell of anything except sun and air. In
the palace, linen wasn't just fabric. It
was part of the language of cleanliness.
Each towel, wrap, or undergarment had
its own rule. And each piece said
something about the woman who used it.
The towel for her face was different
from the one for her hands. The towel
for her hands was different from the one
for her arms. Nothing overlapped. Not
because the body was dirty, but because
the system demanded separation. Towels
had specific duties, and the whiter the
towel, the more refined it was thought
to be. Whiteness showed effort. It
proved that the person using it had the
time, servants, and patience to keep
fabric as pale as possible in a dusty
world. The linen was not dyed. There
were no fancy borders, no threads of
color, no embroidery.
just layers of almost translucent cloth,
smooth and feather light. The most
prized were made from fine flax
harvested during specific months of the
year, soaked and beaten until the fibers
felt like soft paper. When folded, these
towels stacked almost silently. They
made no sound when touched. They held no
stiffness. Modern households have
color-coded towels for convenience. In
ancient Egypt, everything was white
because anything less showed you weren't
trying hard enough. Each morning, a
servant opened a stone chest built into
the wall of the bathing room. Inside
were stacks of fresh towels wrapped the
day before. Every layer was folded the
same way, not too tight so the fabric
could breathe, not too loose, so it
would not wrinkle. The towels were
arranged by use. One pile for the face,
one for the hands, one for the full body
after bathing. These piles were never
confused, not even by accident. The
towels were counted every day. A record
was kept not for security, but for
routine. If one towel went missing or
was misplaced, the senior maid noticed.
It wasn't about punishment. It was about
control. A lost towel meant something
had gone wrong in the sequence. And if
the sequence was off, the routine was
off. In a palace built on repetition,
even one missing towel was a ripple.
After use, the towels were not left on
the floor or tossed in a corner. They
were placed in a low basket lined with
thick linen. This basket was carried out
within minutes. A second team of
servants working outdoors took over from
there. Each towel was soaked in water
mixed with dried soap w then scrubbed
gently by hand against polished flat
stones. No tools, no brushes, just hands
and movement. Rinsing came next, then
drying. But drying didn't happen in the
shade. The towels were laid flat under
direct sunlight, stretched over ropes
tied between palm trees or over smooth
drying boards. The sun bleached them
naturally.
The heat softened them once dry. They
were shaken gently, folded while still
warm, and placed in a separate chest to
rest overnight before being used again.
I sometimes think the towels received
more care than most people today give
their skin. The storage chest was made
of stone, not wood. It stayed cool even
in summer. The chest was lined with
cedar shavings and bundles of dried mint
to keep insects away and add a light
natural scent. The towels never smelled
musty. They smelled like wind and stone.
The woman who used them didn't need to
ask about their condition. She knew they
would be soft, dry, and warm. Every few
weeks, the least white towels were
removed from service, not because they
were dirty, but because their brightness
had faded slightly. These were given to
junior staff or used for cleaning floors
or benches. New towels replaced them.
There was no ceremony to it, but the
logic was clear. Royalty did not use
things that looked tired.
The highest grade of linen was saved for
the woman's personal use. It was
lighter, thinner, almost sheer in
certain lights. When held up, it seemed
to glow. These towels were harder to
clean, easier to damage, and more
expensive to replace. But they were
always used first, never saved. Because
in the palace, appearance mattered more
than longevity. Compared to that, most
of us today are lucky if we remember to
wash our towels once a week.
The towel touched her skin for only a
moment before being returned to the
servant's hands. It was not used twice,
even if dry, even if clean. Once it
touched the body, its purpose was
finished. That was the rule. She would
not wipe her face with something that
had touched her shoulder. She would not
dry her arms with something that had
touched her leg. It wasn't fear. It was
protocol. There was comfort in that
predictability. Knowing each towel had
been seen to, each fold is inspected.
Each piece of cloth is placed in its
exact spot. The system made things
easier, not harder. It removed the need
to choose. It allowed her to move
through her morning with confidence that
every piece of linen had already been
cared for. At last, when the drying was
done and the oil had settled into the
skin, the woman would sit briefly near
the window to cool. The breeze moved
through the carved stone slats. The air
smelled of fresh cloth and distant myrr.
Her hands rested in her lap. Her face
was clean. Her hair was bound. The
towels had done their job. It amazes me
that in a world without soap bars or
laundry machines, they still manage to
keep everything cleaner than we often do
now. Next, we'll watch as her wig is
brought out, combed with ivory, and
perfumed before it touches her head,
because even her hair had a routine of
its own. Before the day could begin
outside the walls of her chamber, there
was still one more task to complete, the
wig. It was not tossed on like a hat or
fastened in a hurry. It was treated as
an extension of her identity. No one in
the royal household wore their natural
hair in public, not even the youngest
princesses. Natural hair was too
unpredictable, too vulnerable to heat,
dust, and sweat. The wig, on the other
hand, could be shaped, scented, and
replaced without compromising anything
beneath it. Each evening, the wig was
removed carefully. A servant stood
behind her, fingers gloved in linen, and
slowly lifted the edges from the scalp.
The inner cap was made from soft woven
flax shaped to match the curve of her
head. Once removed, it was placed on a
carved wooden stand with a rounded top
to hold its form. The stand sat on a low
table near the back of the chamber,
shaded from sun and wind. Before being
put away for the night, the wig had to
be cleaned, not with water. Water was
never used on royal wigs. Instead, a dry
powder was applied. Made from ground
sandalwood mixed with crushed rose
petals and a touch of myrr. This powder
absorbed oils and freshened the strands.
The scent was subtle but steady. It
reminded anyone who walked past that
this was not hair, but something
curated. The powder was sprinkled
lightly over the wig and brushed through
using a wide- tothed comb carved from
ivory. The ivory was old. Most of these
combs were passed down within the
household. The one used on her wig had
floral patterns carved into the handle
and teeth so smooth they could glide
through tightly woven strands without
pulling. Modern detangling sprays have
nothing on a well- balanced ivory comb
and a handful of perfumed powder. The
brushing took time, at least 15 minutes.
sometimes longer. The servant used long,
steady strokes, lifting sections of the
wig and shaking out excess powder as she
went. She held the base with one hand to
avoid tugging at the cap. Every strand
was meant to fall in its proper place.
Any stray fibers were clipped away, tied
with thread, and stored separately in a
small clay jar. Nothing was thrown out
carelessly. Even shed hair had its use
in repairs or ritual. The cleaned wig
was then covered with a thin linen wrap
to keep dust off overnight. In the
morning before it could be worn again,
it was checked, brushed once more, and
lightly sprayed with oil. The oil came
in a small jar with a narrow spout. Just
a few drops were warmed in the palm of
the servant's hand and patted into the
base of the wig. Another drop was rubbed
along the outer layer to give the
strands a slight shine. The scent varied
depending on the day. Some mornings it
was blue lotus, other times frankincense
or cedar. The wig was then lifted with
both hands and placed carefully on the
royal woman's head. It was adjusted
slightly, the edges tucked under, the
fit checked by touch alone. A silk band
might be tied around the crown if the
day's events called for formality. If
not, the wig remained plain, its scent
doing the speaking. I find it oddly
reassuring that something so quiet and
personal could be repeated every day
without anyone needing to explain why it
mattered. Not every wig was the same.
There were several to choose from. Some
are short and layered, others long and
braided. Some had gold beads woven into
them, but those were kept for religious
ceremonies or court appearances. The
daily wig was simple, dark and firm. It
held its shape, but never looked stiff.
The color was often a deep black with
hints of brown made from dyed human hair
mixed with fine thread. Only one person
in the chamber was allowed to handle the
wig directly, the brushing servant. If
she were ill or away, the wig would stay
unworn. There were no substitutions, no
rush to replace her. The trust built
between hand and head was not given
lightly. The comb itself was kept in a
fabric pouch sewn from old linen robes.
Inside the pouch was a small sache of
dried lavender and crushed mint. These
herbs helped preserve the ivory and left
a trace of scent on the comb. The pouch
was stored in a lacquered wooden box
along with spare hair ties and the
powder mix. No one opened this box
without permission. It was as personal
as clothing, as protected as jewelry.
Every few weeks, the wig was
reconditioned. This involved steaming
over warm cloths and reapplying oil
blends to the inner cap. It was also
when any damaged strands were removed
and replaced. The process could take
hours, but it was always scheduled on
quiet days. No one rushed a wig, not in
the palace. Compared to modern hair
routines full of sprays, dryers, and
styling tools, this was low tech, but
incredibly precise. The royal woman
never touched the wig herself. Not out
of pride, but out of habit. It simply
wasn't part of her role. The moment it
touched her scalp, it became part of her
presence. The scent it carried was hers.
The shape it held became her image for
the day. If it was slightly off, someone
would notice. If it smelled too
strongly, it would be corrected. But if
done right, the wig settled without
effort. It moved when she walked, but
never shifted. It caught the wind
slightly, but never tangled. From across
a room, no one could tell it wasn't her
real hair. Up close, they wouldn't care.
It was clean. It was shaped. It was
hers.
As she rose from her seat, the servant
stepped back. The powder had done its
job. The oil had sealed the fibers. The
scent had begun to release into the air.
Even something not alive could be
treated with more care than most living
things get today. Next, she would turn
to another part of her body rarely
spoken about, but carefully maintained,
a place cleaned with warm herbal
solutions, exact ratios, and quiet
skill. Once the wig was set, and the
outer appearance carefully arranged,
attention turned inward again. There was
one part of the royal routine that
received just as much care, though it
was spoken of less and carried out with
more discretion. It was the cleansing of
the most private area of the body. This
task was never ignored, never left a
chance, and never treated casually. For
Egyptian royal women, intimate hygiene
was handled with its own set of tools,
ingredients, and quiet expertise.
The cleansing took place in a separate
section of the chamber, closed off with
curtains made of thick linen. There were
no mirrors, no perfumes, just stone,
cloth, and warm water. The main tool was
a shallow stone basin carved from smooth
granite and polished to avoid sharp
edges. It was not placed directly on the
floor, but raised slightly on a low
wooden platform. Next to it was a
smaller bowl used to hold the herbal
solution.
A folded towel, freshly cleaned and
still warm from the sun, rested nearby.
The solution itself was made fresh every
morning. No two batches were exactly
alike, but the ingredients remained
constant. Pomegranate leaves were
crushed first. Their juice had aringent
properties that made them ideal for
reducing irritation. Hibiscus petals
were dried, then ground into a fine
powder. A small pinch of mineral salt
collected from the edge of the Nile was
added for its antibacterial effect.
These three ingredients were mixed with
warm water, stirred with a wooden stick,
and left to settle for several minutes
before use. In modern times, people rely
on store-bought products with long
ingredient lists. Back then, they
trusted leaves, petals, and salt to do
the work. The servant assigned to
prepare the mixture had been trained
carefully. She knew the proper ratio by
touch and by scent. Too much salt could
sting. Too little pomegranate made the
solution ineffective.
The color, texture, and temperature were
all checked before it was considered
ready. Only when she was satisfied would
she pour it into the small application
bowl and carry it to the inner chamber.
The woman being cleansed remained seated
on a low stool with slats, legs slightly
parted, covered from the waist down by a
loose linen cloth. She did not need to
speak. The servant washed her hands in a
separate basin, dried them on a clean
towel, and put on gloves made from soft
woven flax.
Then, using a folded cloth dipped in the
herbal solution, she began the process.
The motion was slow and careful, one
stroke per cloth. Each wipe was done in
a single direction. The cloth was
discarded into a covered basket after
use. No area was cleaned twice with the
same fabric. After three or four passes,
a fresh cloth would be used to dry the
skin. Another drop of warm water, now
mixed with just hibiscus and a touch of
honey, was applied for cooling. Once
finished, the entire area was patted dry
and dusted lightly with crushed rose
powder, not for scent, but for its
calming properties. The cloth used to
cover the body was replaced, and the
woman stood slowly without needing
assistance. The basin was emptied, the
bowls rinsed, and the towels sent out
for immediate washing. I've always found
it impressive how something so intimate
was handled with such precision and
without embarrassment. This wasn't
something only done after baths or
before ceremonial events. It was part of
the daily rhythm, especially in hot
weather or during certain phases of the
moon. The cleansing might take place
twice a day, not because of discomfort,
but because it was believed to maintain
balance within the body. A clean
exterior reflected a calm interior. The
servant responsible had to memorize not
only the ingredients, but also the
timing. The solution could not be too
hot or too cold. The clothes could not
be too damp. The water had to touch only
once or it risked carrying irritation.
These weren't guesses. There were rules
learned over months of quiet training
passed down from one generation of women
to the next. No men ever entered this
part of the chamber. No male physicians
were consulted. Intimate hygiene was a
world handled by women for women and
around women. Even the linen used was
marked with small red stitches to
identify it as part of this task. It was
never used elsewhere and was stored in
its own chest, wrapped tightly and
sealed with a strip of papyrus.
Compared to today's products with bright
packaging and endless marketing, this
was discreet, handmade, and quietly
effective.
Once the cleansing was complete, there
were no perfumes added, no heavy oils.
The area was left clean and dry. Only
later in the day, if a ceremony or
appearance was planned, would a small
pouch of dried petals be placed inside
the underrobe for scent, but not during
the cleansing itself.
Scent was always the final step, never
the first. Some mixtures were passed
down like recipes. A certain grandmother
might have used fig sap. An aunt might
have preferred tamarind. But within the
palace, consistency was valued over
personal tradition. That was why every
servant assigned to this task had to be
trained the same way, using the same
method for the same woman day after day.
There were no shortcuts, no skipped
steps. If the servant was ill, the task
would be postponed. No replacement was
called. It was not simply a cleaning. It
was a ritual of care, a quiet proof that
even parts of the body not seen by
others deserve the same respect and
attention. And it was not done in shame.
There was no hesitation in the hands of
the servant, no awkwardness in the
posture of the woman being cleaned. This
was their reality. As matter of fact as
brushing hair or tying a robe. In a time
when people feared spirits more than
germs, it's fascinating that they still
treated hygiene like a sacred
discipline. Next, we'll look at the one
time of the month that changed
everything about routine. When fabric
was stitched by hand, labeled with care,
and hidden where no one but a trusted
few could find it. The daily routine in
the palace followed a careful rhythm.
But there were certain times when that
rhythm adjusted. During the days of
menration, the usual flow of bathing,
oiling, and dressing didn't stop, but it
changed slightly. The royal woman's
privacy was doubled. Her comfort became
a higher priority, and every item she
touched, wore, or used during that time
was kept separate from the rest. There
were no commercial pads or disposables.
Everything was handmade. The sanitary
cloths were sewn from layers of the
softest linen folded together into thick
rectangular strips, then stitched
tightly along the edges. Each strip had
fabric ties at both ends used to secure
it around a simple underb made of woven
flax. The belt sat low on the hips and
could be tightened or loosened depending
on movement. There were no buttons, no
hooks, only cloth against cloth. These
clothes weren't assigned randomly. Each
one had a small symbol stitched in one
corner. A bird, a star, a flower, or
sometimes just a curved line. These
marks served one purpose identification.
That way, the ones used by one woman
were never confused with anothers. It
wasn't just a matter of cleanliness. It
was a sign of respect. Everyone had
their own set. Today, products come in
different colors and wrappers. In
ancient Egypt, a stitched star told you
which cloth belonged to you. The clothes
were stored in a separate wooden chest
lined with papyrus and dried herbs. The
lid fit tightly, and the inside smelled
faintly of mint and cedar. Nothing was
left open to the air. The clothes were
folded in stacks of 10. Each stack
wrapped in a square of plain linen and
secured with a simple cord. Every week
the stacks were checked, counted, and
replaced as needed. Any that showed
signs of wear were retired without
ceremony. When in use, the cloth was
positioned, tied, and checked for
comfort. It had to sit snugly without
slipping. During the day, if needed, it
was replaced every few hours. The used
ones were not left anywhere visible.
They were placed directly into a clay
jar with a fitted lid. This jar was kept
in a niche in the bathing area, shaded
and out of sight. Once the day ended,
the contents of the jar were taken out
carefully and washed separately. The
washing process followed its own rules.
These clothes were never mixed with
other laundry, not towels, not robes,
not even undergarments. They were
scrubbed by hand using a mixture of warm
water and powdered soap w. Then they
were rinsed three times in separate
basins. After that, they were laid out
to dry in a hidden part of the palace
courtyard, behind a high stone wall
where no visitors passed and no other
laundry was ever hung. I find it oddly
dignified that even menstrual cloths had
a place, a method, and a silence of
their own. Once dry, the clothes were
inspected. Any thread out of place was
trimmed. If the ties began to fray, they
were stitched immediately. No part was
allowed to look worn or neglected. The
clothes were then folded and returned to
the personal chest, ready for next time.
Everything moved without fuss, no
announcements, no embarrassment, just a
quiet task done by people who had done
it many times before. The royal woman
didn't handle these clothes herself. She
didn't need to, but she did know where
they were stored, how they were cleaned,
and who was responsible. That knowledge
mattered. If the wrong cloth was used or
if the drying was done too close to
other items, it was noted, not scolded,
just corrected. There was also a small
record kept by the supervising maid. A
simple chart on papyrus marked the days
of each woman's cycle. This wasn't
shared outside the room. It wasn't
discussed in the open, but it helped
with planning. Baths were adjusted.
Outfits were chosen with comfort in
mind. Long ceremonies were avoided when
possible, and when it was not possible,
the woman simply dressed carefully and
walked a little slower. The belt used to
hold the clothes was washed just as
carefully. After each use, it was wiped
clean with vinegar and then dried in the
sun. It had no decoration. No one ever
saw it, but it was treated like
everything else with attention. Compared
to today's options of pads, tampons, and
apps, this was a quiet system made of
thread, herbs, and routine. These days
were not seen as shameful or unclean,
but they did require more care. The body
needed gentler handling. The oil used
after bathing was switched to a softer
blend. The wig might be left off. A
thinner robe might be chosen. No
perfumes were added. Nothing strong
touched the skin. Food was also
adjusted. Herbal teas replaced spiced
wine. Cooling fruits were brought to the
chamber. Foot soaks were offered before
bed. A bit of honey was stirred into
warm water to ease cramps. It wasn't
spoken of as treatment, just kindness.
No one mentioned the blood directly. It
was referred to only in terms of timing.
The phrase used was the quiet days.
Everyone knew what it meant. Nothing had
to be said. the clothes, the belt, the
jar, the schedule. They said enough, and
when the days passed, the clothes were
cleaned one final time and placed back
into their box. The belt was wrapped and
stored. The jar was scrubbed and left
empty. The woman resumed her normal
pace, and the servants, as always,
prepared for the next time without a
word, even in the most private parts of
life. Ancient Egyptian women were given
tools that worked, routines that lasted
and space to be themselves.
Next, we'll follow the first taste of
morning as it reaches the mouth, not
with sweet fruit, but with a strange
gray powder made from eggshell ash and
tree roots. Before any words were
spoken, before breakfast or morning
visits, the mouth had to be cleaned.
This was not a matter of luxury or
scent. It was part of the expectation.
No member of the royal household began
their day with stale breath or dry
tongue. It wasn't allowed, not in the
presence of servants, not during
offerings, and especially not when
facing scribes or advisers. Cleanliness
in the mouth mattered just as much as
cleanliness on the skin. The process
started with a jar, not a large one, and
not heavy. It was small enough to fit in
the palm, made of smooth clay with a lid
sealed in beeswax. The contents were dry
and gray with a texture like powder.
This was not ash from wood or coal. It
was made by burning crushed eggshells
and mixing them with powdered pummus,
ground barley, and a small pinch of
dried mint. The result was slightly
gritty, lightly scented, and meant to
remove buildup without harming the
enamel. The woman did not use her finger
or a brush.
A thin wooden stick smoothed at one end
served as her tool. The end was dipped
into the powder just enough to collect a
pinch. Then slowly and with even
pressure, the stick was rubbed along the
front of the teeth, then the back, then
each side. No foam, no sweet flavor,
just the sensation of powder and wood
moving over bone. Compared to modern
toothpaste with stripes and sparkle,
this was plain, chalky, and surprisingly
effective. Each part of the mouth had
its turn. The stick was wiped clean with
a linen square between passes. The
powder was reapplied only after the
first layer had been brushed away. The
goal was not freshness, but removal.
Food from the night before, oils from
the mouth's own working. Even sleep left
a taste that had to be cleared. Once the
brushing was done, a second jar was
opened. This one held clear water
infused with fresh mint and dried
margarm. It had steeped overnight and
was poured into a small cup before use.
The woman took a sip, swirled it through
her mouth, then spit it into a covered
bowl made of alabaster. This bowl was
lined with linen and emptied after every
use. It was never left uncovered. Not
even for a moment. After rinsing, a
final step remained. From a tray nearby,
the servant offered a bundle of small
sticks tied together with flax string.
Each stick was about the length of a
finger and had been softened by soaking
in warm water. The woman selected one
and began to chew gently. The tip began
to fray, creating soft fibers that
worked between the teeth. These sticks
came from a specific plant known for its
bitter taste and cleansing effect. She
chewed, not hurriedly, but just enough
to feel the fibers spreading. Then, once
satisfied, she held the stick in her
mouth for a few more moments before
removing it and placing it into a
separate bowl. This stick was used only
once. It was then dried and later burned
with discarded herbs in the palace fire
pit. I think it's interesting how the
mouth, which most people ignore until
something goes wrong, received so much
daily attention in ancient Egypt. There
were no mirrors involved, no measuring
spoons, just smell, touch, and habit.
The servant preparing the powder had
memorized the mixture by feel. Too much
pummus made it too abrasive. Too much
mint, and the taste became distracting.
The ratio had to be adjusted depending
on the weather. On humid days, more
barley was added to keep the powder dry.
On cold days, a few drops of clove oil
were stirred in for warmth. The powder
was made weekly. It was dried in clay
bowls under the sun, then crushed again
with a stone roller before being poured
into the jar. Each batch was dated with
a small mark scratched into the side of
the lid. No batch was kept longer than 8
days. If unused, it was emptied into the
garden soil. Nothing lingered. The
chewing sticks were also prepared with
care. Collected from riverbanks in the
early morning. They were peeled,
trimmed, and bundled. No two sticks were
exactly the same, but the ones used by
royal women were always uniform in
thickness. If a stick cracked, it was
replaced. If it felt too dry, it was
soaked again. Some women preferred them
longer, some shorter, but no one skipped
this step. Today, most people brush
while rushing out the door. In the
palace, dental care was done sitting
down with a tray and two bowls. The
entire process took no more than 10
minutes, but it created a sense of
pause. It marked the transition from the
quiet of the inner chamber to the
activity that followed. A mouth clean
this way didn't smell like perfume. It
smelled like nothing at all, and that
was the goal. Once finished, the servant
wiped the bowl, replaced the lid on the
powder jar, and carried both out to be
stored. The linen used to wipe the
wooden stick was placed in a separate
basket, never reused.
The alabaster bowl for rinsing was taken
out and replaced with a fresh one for
the next day. This wasn't a luxury. It
was a necessity. Just as the body had to
be oiled and the skin had to be shaved,
the mouth had to be brought back to its
neutral state. No flavor, no scent, no
trace of sleep. It wasn't about
impressing someone or preparing for a
conversation. It was about control. If
everything else in the palace followed a
routine, so did the breath. Even the
smallest rituals in ancient Egypt
carried weight. Not because of what they
added, but because of what they
prevented. Next, we'll see what happened
when that fresh skin needed care when
honey, river clay, and flower water came
together not to clean, but to repair.
Not every part of the routine had to
happen daily. Some treatments were done
only every few days, not because they
were less important, but because the
skin needed time to recover and absorb.
One of these treatments was the face
mask. It was not meant for beauty in the
decorative sense. It was for balance,
for calm, for keeping the skin smooth,
clean, and ready for sunlight, perfume,
and wig. Every third morning, usually
just after mouth cleansing and before
dressing, the room was cooled and
quieted again. The royal woman would lie
on a low bench, head slightly elevated
by a rolled cloth, arms resting at her
sides. Her hair had already been tied
back and covered. A fresh linen wrap was
placed over her chest to protect her
robe from drips. There was no jewelry,
no mirrors, only stillness. The musk was
made from two ingredients. The first was
honey collected from palace hives,
stored in stone jars, and stirred before
use to break any crystal formation.
The second was clay taken from the banks
of the Nile, cleaned of sediment, dried
in the sun, and ground into fine powder.
When mixed together, they formed a thick
golden paste, slightly warm to the
touch, smooth when stirred, sticky, but
not unpleasant.
A small bowl held the mixture. A flat
brush made from palm fibers and linen
was dipped into the mask and stroked
gently over the face. It started at the
forehead, then moved down to the
temples, cheeks, and chin. The area
around the eyes was left bare. The nose
and lips were brushed lightly, just
enough to coat. There was no rubbing, no
pressure, just one layer spread evenly.
Today, people smear creams in 5 seconds
and call it self-care.
In the palace, one layer of clay took 15
minutes to apply. The woman's eyes
stayed closed throughout. She did not
speak. The room smelled faintly of honey
and dried riverbank. The clay carried a
scent that was hard to describe,
something between stone and sun. The
honey softened it, making the air feel
warmer without heat. There was no need
for candles or incense. The mask itself
filled the room with a gentle sweetness.
The mask remained on the skin for about
20 minutes. A servant sat nearby,
watching the texture change. As the clay
dried, it shifted color slightly from
gold to pale yellow. The edges hardened
first. The cheeks took longer. When the
surface began to crack near the chin, it
was time to remove it. A separate bowl
of cool flower water was brought
forward. Inside were petals from white
lotus, dried hibiscus, and a few strands
of dried papyrus. The cloth used for
wiping was made of thin linen, folded
several times to prevent tearing. It was
dipped into the water, rung out gently,
and pressed onto the face. Not rubbed,
just pressed, then lifted, then pressed
again. Little by little, the mask was
softened and removed. The cloth was
turned often to avoid smearing residue
back onto the skin.
The servant worked in silence, eyes
focused, hands steady. Once the face was
clear of clay and honey, a final pass
was done with a slightly damp cloth
scented with rose oil. Just one stroke
from forehead to chin, then another from
the temple to the jaw. I've always liked
how they didn't rush to see results. The
ritual was the result. The face was then
left to dry naturally for a minute
before a last step was added. A small
flask of scented water made from steamed
flowers and herbs was sprayed lightly
across the skin. It was not a perfume.
It left no visible trace, but it calmed
the skin after the clay. The spray came
from a reed tube, pinched at one end to
control the mist. Two passes were
enough. No dabbing afterward. The skin
absorbed what it needed. The woman
remained lying down for a few more
minutes, letting the scent settle and
the moisture fade. Her breathing stayed
slow. Her face had no powder, no paint.
It was bare but not exposed. The skin
looked calm, not glowing,
just at ease. If someone had entered the
room, then they might not have noticed
anything different. But to those who
performed the ritual, the difference was
clear. The mask was not applied daily
for a reason. Too much would irritate
the skin. The balance came from spacing
every third day. The face had time to
reset, to breathe, and to restore its
softness. And because the ingredients
were fresh and made in small batches,
there was no waste. If the mask wasn't
used, it was discarded into the herb
garden to feed the soil. Compared to
modern routines filled with 10step
products and glass bottles, this was two
ingredients and one brush. But it
worked. The brush was rinsed, dried in
the sun, and placed back in its pouch.
The bowl was wiped and returned to its
shelf. The linen cloths used for removal
were washed immediately and never reused
on the same day. The reed spray was
checked and refilled as needed.
Everything had its place, its rhythm,
and its end.
The woman sat up slowly, face still
uncovered, eyes half closed. She did not
touch her skin. She did not ask
questions. Her body knew what came next.
Her skin had been given what it needed.
There was nothing more to do. And so, as
the servants prepared the day's garments
and the trays of perfume were brought
in, the final traces of the mask faded
gently into the room. Even without a
mirror, she knew her face was ready, and
that was enough. Next, we'll turn from
skin to fingertips, where nails were
cut, polished, oiled, and sometimes even
covered in gold.
Hands were never the focus of attention
in court, but they were always noticed.
A raised cup, a wave, a quiet gesture
toward a servant. These small movements
made the fingers visible, and in royal
life, visibility required preparation.
The care of the hands, especially the
nails, was treated with the same detail
as the face and hair. It wasn't about
luxury. It was about maintenance, a
signal that nothing on the body had been
left to chance. The morning hand
treatment began after the skin had
rested and the face had dried from the
mask. The royal woman sat near the
window, arms resting on a linen cloth
spread across a wooden board. Natural
light was important for this task. It
showed the smallest blemish. The servant
assigned to care for her hands began by
inspecting each finger. The nails were
trimmed with a flat copper tool,
sharpened weakly. The shape was kept
simple. No curves, just straight edges
with soft corners. After trimming, the
nails were filed using a smooth stone.
Not coarse, not gritty, just enough
texture to wear down rough edges. The
stone had been soaked in oil and dried
to reduce friction. Each nail took
several passes. The servant moved in one
direction only, never back and forth.
The goal was not shine, but smoothness.
Today's nail salons might promise
perfect polish, but in ancient Egypt,
perfection meant being able to see no
lines at all. Once the nails were
shaped, they were cleaned with a thin
stick wrapped in linen. Any dust or
leftover debris was wiped away. Then
came the dye. A small dish held henna
paste mixed earlier that morning. The
paste was reddish brown, thick like
honey, and slightly fragrant. Each nail
was coated with a small dab, shaped into
an even circle that stopped short of the
cuticle. No flooding, no streaks, just a
soft color applied slowly. The henna
stayed on the nails for several minutes.
During that time, the woman stayed
still. Her hands rested on the low
cushion, fingers slightly spread. Once
the paste began to dry and crack at the
edges, the servant used a soft cloth to
lift it away. The nails beneath now had
a soft orange red tint. Nothing bright,
just a gentle hue that caught the light
without calling for attention.
After the coloring came the oiling. A
small bowl of oil made from pressed
sesame seeds and thickened with tree
resin was warmed slightly in the sun.
The oil smelled faintly of nuts and sap.
The servant poured a few drops into her
palm and began massaging it into each
hand. First the knuckles, then the
fingers, then the base of each nail. The
massage was slow, firm, but not rough.
It helped blood flow and softened the
skin. I've always thought it said
something that even the skin between
fingers received more care than some
people's faces do today. The oil left a
thin sheen on the skin. It wasn't sticky
and it didn't drip. It soaked in slowly
as the woman sat without moving. Her
fingers were stretched, turned slightly,
then laid flat again. A dry cloth was
placed nearby in case of excess oil, but
it was rarely needed. The hands were
expected to absorb it all. For some
noble women, especially those who
appeared often in public, a final detail
was added. Thin nail covers made from
gold leaf, were fitted over each finger.
These weren't thick or decorative. They
didn't sparkle. They followed the shape
of the nail exactly and curved slightly
over the tip to protect the edge. They
were worn not to impress, but to
preserve. A polished nail could chip
from daily use. The gold prevented that.
The nail covers were held in place with
a small band that circled the top of
each finger. The bands were made of soft
copper wrapped in silk thread. They
didn't pinch. They didn't leave marks.
If one loosened, it was removed
immediately and adjusted. The covers
were not worn every day, only when
needed. But when they were, they stayed
on until the evening, removed gently and
wiped clean before being returned to
their case.
The case itself was carved from ebony
with spaces for each nail cover. It was
lined with linen and scented with myrr.
The servant responsible for this box was
also in charge of checking the condition
of the nail tips each week. If any gold
began to dull or dent, it was replaced,
not repaired. Royal hands did not wear
patched ornaments. Compared to that,
today's acrylics and gels seem a little
rushed, even when done carefully. There
were no rings worn during this process.
No bracelets, no bangles to distract.
The hands had to be bare for the work to
be practical. After the oiling, they
remained uncovered for at least 15
minutes. No clothes, no gloves, just air
and sunlight. the palms faced down to
avoid dust and the fingers were kept
still. The goal was not glamour. It was
a presentation. A hand that looked
healthy, clean, and calm. The red henna
on the nails gave contrast to the skin.
The oil added softness without shine.
And the gold when used gave structure to
the shape of the fingers. It was a small
part of the body, but it moved in every
conversation. It poured water, lifted
scrolls, and accepted offerings. And so
it was trained, shaped, and preserved.
Once the treatment ended, the cloth was
folded. The oils returned to their
covered bowl, and the stone file was
wiped clean. The servant stepped back.
The woman flexed her fingers once just
to feel the looseness of the joints.
Then she stood. Her hands moved without
effort. Her fingers didn't stick. Her
nails didn't catch. Even if no one else
noticed, she would know her hands were
exactly as they should be. Next, we'll
follow her. She leaves her chamber,
carrying something no one else could
see, but everyone could sense, a tiny
scented pouch tucked into the folds of
her robe. Once her hands had been oiled
and her nails had settled into their
gentle red hue, the final personal
detail before stepping into public was
added. It was not a ring, not a brooch,
not even a piece of cloth. It was
something small, something almost
invisible, but always present, a scent
pouch. This little object was more than
an accessory. It was a part of her
identity. Each royal woman had her own,
prepared every morning, carried without
fail, and replaced without delay. The
pouch was small enough to fit into the
palm. Some were made from soft lambkin,
thinned until it felt like fabric.
Others were sewn from tightly woven
silk, dyed in neutral shades to match
inner robes. It was not meant to be
seen. The material had to be breathable,
but strong enough to hold its shape.
Each pouch had a drawstring made of
twisted thread, looped just once, then
tucked under the edge so it wouldn't
catch on anything. Inside the pouch were
a few carefully chosen ingredients.
Dried petals from jasmine or rose, thin
curls of cedar bark, a pinch of crushed
frankincense or myrr, sometimes a bit of
crushed citrus peel. Each household had
its own mix, some more floral, others
are more reinous. The mixture was dried
in a clay tray for at least 2 days, then
transferred into the pouch using a
wooden spoon, never by hand. The oils
from skin could spoil the blend. Today,
people choose between dozens of perfumes
and glass bottles. Back then, one
handful of dried scent was enough to
last a day. Each pouch was assembled by
a servant who had memorized her
mistress's preferences. One woman might
prefer more lotus. Another might ask for
a sharper tone, like mint or cinnamon.
These preferences were noted and
repeated. There was no guessing, and
once a mix was established, it rarely
changed. The body became associated with
the scent. People expected it. Servants
recognized it. Even the queen's presence
in a room could be guessed before she
entered, just from the trace she left in
the air. The pouch itself was usually
placed inside the folds of the robe
between two layers of fabric at the
chest. Sometimes, if the robe was
especially tight or the day was warm,
the pouch was hidden inside the wig,
tucked near the crown or behind the ear.
It was never attached openly. To display
it would have felt improper. Scent was
meant to be noticed without being named.
Each pouch lasted only one day. By
evening it had begun to lose its
potency. The oils would fade and the
petals would soften. That pouch was set
aside and burned in the same brazier
used for herbs and worn cloths. The next
morning, a fresh pouch was waiting. It
had already been prepared the night
before and dried near the edge of the
window, where a light breeze could carry
away any moisture. The drying mattered.
A damp pouch might mold. A wet one would
stain fabric. The balance had to be
exact. The pouch had to be dry enough to
hold its shape, but soft enough to bend
slightly under touch. If it crumbled, it
was remade. If it felt stiff, it was
discarded. Only the best ones were
chosen for the woman's morning routine.
I find it strangely comforting that even
a detail so small had its own rules, its
own method, and its own daily rhythm.
There were extra pouches stored in a
cedar box near the dressing area. Each
was wrapped in a linen square to
preserve the scent. A label written in
ink on a strip of papyrus marked the
date of its preparation. These pouches
were never touched once placed in
storage. Only the servant with scented
gloves could handle them. It wasn't
superstition. It was practice.
Too many hands meant too many chances to
ruin something fragile. Even when the
woman moved between rooms or buildings,
the pouch stayed with her. If her robe
was changed, the pouch was transferred.
If her wig was adjusted, the pouch was
checked. If she sat close to someone in
conversation, they might not see the
pouch, but they would catch the scent.
Not loud, not perfumed, just familiar.
The scent did more than please others.
It kept the woman grounded in long
ceremonies where movement was
restricted, in court gatherings where
voices blurred. That soft trace of lotus
or cedar reminded her of who she was,
that she'd been prepared, that she had
taken time, that her body carried order
in a world full of noise. Compared to
scented sprays that vanish in an hour,
these little pouches held their presence
quietly from morning until sunset. No
one discussed the pouches openly. There
was no praise, no comparison. But
everyone knew when one had been
forgotten. The absence of scent was
noticed more than its presence. It was
rare. But when it happened, it felt like
something unfinished, like a door left a
jar or a sleeve not ironed. The practice
was not limited to the queen. Other
women in the royal household had their
pouches, though the ingredients varied.
Higher status meant finer blends.
Daughters received simpler mixes. Elders
preferred heavier notes like sandalwood
or amber, but everyone carried
something. That was the rule. As the
woman prepared to leave her chamber, her
pouch in place. Her fingers brushed the
fold of her robe lightly, checking its
weight. She did not need to smell it to
know it was there. Her body had carried
that feeling for years. Even without a
word, the people around her knew she had
entered because scent more than anything
tells the truth. Next, we'll open the
wardrobe where inner garments wait, not
flashy or jeweled, but clean, smooth,
and always pressed with fragrant hands.
Once the robe had been smoothed and the
pouch of scent was tucked into place,
there remained one final task before the
royal woman was ready to appear. It was
the treatment of body odor. Even in a
world without artificial deodorants or
modern soaps, smell mattered not just
for comfort, but for presence. A royal
woman could not risk being remembered
for the wrong reason. Her words, her
robe, her gesture, and her scent had to
match in care. The process did not
involve washing again. The body had
already been cleaned, oiled, and
dressed.
What came next was a final layer, a form
of quiet armor that clung close to the
skin, but announced itself only when the
air shifted. It started with a powder,
not white, not sticky, not heavily
scented. It was made by grinding dried
resin, usually myrrh or frankincense,
into a fine dust. Sometimes sandalwood
was added, depending on the season. The
powder was stored in a wide lipped clay
bowl. It was not poured or scooped. A
fine mesh cloth stretched over the top
allowed it to be applied by shaking
gently. The servant held the bowl over
the woman's shoulder and tapped once or
twice. The dust fell like pollen, soft
and dry, landing across the collarbone
and chest. A second pass dusted the
arms. A third, the back. The powder
clung lightly, but evenly. It wasn't
rubbed in. It simply rested there.
Compared to today's sprays and rollons,
this method was slower but far more
elegant. For areas more prone to sweat,
a different method was used. A tiny
cloth soaked in lotus oil was folded
into a square and pressed lightly
against the underarms, the neck, and the
navl. Not wiped, just pressed and held
for a few seconds, then removed. The oil
was absorbed by the skin, leaving behind
a mild scent and a thin barrier. On
cooler days, sandalwood oil was used
instead. It lasted longer and had a
drier feel. These areas were chosen for
their warmth, where heat collected,
scent collected.
If left untreated, even the cleaner skin
would eventually carry the day's labor.
But with a little oil and powder, the
body stayed neutral. Not fragrant, not
blank, just clean. Clean enough that the
air around her remained light and
pleasant, never sharp or heavy. Some
women preferred only one oil. Others
alternated depending on the moon or
mood. But all followed the same basic
structure. A layer of dust, a press of
oil, a moment of stillness, and never
too much. Overdoing it meant the scent
followed her like smoke that was frowned
upon. It was not her scent that should
arrive first. It was her presence. I
think it's remarkable that something as
simple as dust and oil could hold such
quiet power. Before ceremonial events or
on days when she had to stand near
others for long hours, the process
became more thorough. The powder was
applied twice. The oil was warmed
slightly. The inner wrap beneath the
robe was also dabbed with scented water.
It didn't touch the skin directly.
But it released fragrance slowly as she
moved. The hem of the robe might even be
dusted so that each step stirred the
scent upward. This was not vanity. It
was protocol, just like the color of
linen or the angle of the eyebrows.
Scent control was part of the royal
image. It wasn't for admiration. It was
for consistency.
If a visitor leaned in to whisper, they
would smell resin and blossom. If a
servant tied her sandals, they would
inhale lotus, not sweat. The dusting
tools were stored in a narrow wooden
case with compartments for each powder
and each oil. The cloths used for
pressing were cleaned daily and replaced
every 3 days. If a cloth touched the
same spot twice, it was folded
differently. Nothing was ever reapplied
without resetting the hand. Each touch
had to feel like the first. Modern
routines rely on strong chemicals. These
women used patience and precision, and
it worked. Even her jewelry followed
scent rules.
Bracelets weren't worn until after the
dusting so they wouldn't trap oil.
Necklaces were wiped with a dry cloth
before touching the skin. Gold, they
believed, should smell of metal and sun,
not of sweat or perfume. On days of
rest, the full dusting was skipped. Just
a touch of oil behind the ears and
perhaps a cloth placed beneath the
pillow was enough. But those days were
rare. Most mornings the same steps are
repeated. The same powders are ground.
The same oils stirred. Not because she
had to smell perfect, but because
nothing was left undone. The scent did
not define her. It simply confirmed what
others already assumed that she was
prepared, precise, and present. No
matter how long the day ahead, her body
had been readed for it. The oils would
fade slowly. The powder would rise with
movement, and no one would think to ask
what she wore. They would only remember
that she had passed near, and that the
air behind her still felt clean. Even
today, a good scent can shift a moment.
In ancient Egypt, it shaped a woman's
entire day. Next, we'll follow her into
the most private room of all. Not the
bath, not the dressing space, but the
one place no visitor ever saw. The royal
toilet was built from stone and cleaned
with care. Once the robe had been
smoothed and the pouch of scent was
tucked into place, there remained one
final task before the royal woman was
ready to appear. It was the treatment of
body odor. Even in a world without
artificial deodorants or modern soaps,
smell mattered not just for comfort, but
for presence. A royal woman could not
risk being remembered for the wrong
reason. Her words, her robe, her
gesture, and her scent had to match in
care. The process did not involve
washing again. The body had already been
cleaned, oiled, and dressed. What came
next was a final layer, a form of quiet
armor that clung close to the skin, but
announced itself only when the air
shifted. It started with a powder, not
white, not sticky, not heavily scented.
It was made by grinding dried resin,
usually myrrh or frankincense, into a
fine dust. Sometimes sandalwood was
added depending on the season. The
powder was stored in a wide-lipped clay
bowl. It was not poured or scooped. A
fine mesh cloth stretched over the top
allowed it to be applied by shaking
gently. The servant held the bowl over
the woman's shoulder and tapped once or
twice. The dust fell like pollen, soft
and dry, landing across the collarbone
and chest. A second pass dusted the
arms. A third, the back. The powder
clung lightly, but evenly. It wasn't
rubbed in. It simply rested there.
Compared to today's sprays and rollons,
this method was slower, but far more
elegant. For areas more prone to sweat,
a different method was used. A tiny
cloth soaked in lotus oil was folded
into a square and pressed lightly
against the underarms, the neck and the
navl. Not wiped, just pressed and held
for a few seconds, then removed. The oil
was absorbed by the skin, leaving behind
a mild scent and a thin barrier. On
cooler days, sandalwood oil was used
instead. It lasted longer and had a
drier feel. These areas were chosen for
their warmth, where heat collected,
scent collected.
If left untreated, even the cleanest
skin would eventually carry the day's
labor. But with a little oil and powder,
the body stayed neutral, not fragrant,
not blank, just clean. Clean enough that
the air around her remained light and
pleasant, never sharp or heavy. Some
women preferred only one oil. Others
alternated depending on the moon or
mood, but all followed the same basic
structure. A layer of dust, a press of
oil, a moment of stillness, and never
too much. Overdoing it meant the scent
followed her like smoke that was frowned
upon. It was not her scent that should
arrive first. It was her presence. I
think it's remarkable that something as
simple as dust and oil could hold such
quiet power. Before ceremonial events or
on days when she had to stand near
others for long hours, the process
became more thorough. The powder was
applied twice. The oil was warmed
slightly. The inner wrap beneath the
robe was also dabbed with scented water.
It didn't touch the skin directly, but
it released fragrance slowly as she
moved. The hem of the robe might even be
dusted so that each step stirred the
scent upward. This was not vanity. It
was protocol, just like the color of
linen or the angle of the eyebrows.
Scent control was part of the royal
image. It wasn't for admiration. It was
for consistency.
If a visitor leaned in to whisper, they
would smell resin and blossom. If a
servant tied her sandals, they would
inhale lotus, not sweat.
The dusting tools were stored in a
narrow wooden case with compartments for
each powder and each oil. The cloths
used for pressing were cleaned daily and
replaced every 3 days. If a cloth
touched the same spot twice, it was
folded differently. Nothing was ever
reapplied without resetting the hand.
Each touch had to feel like the first.
Modern routines rely on strong
chemicals. These women used patience and
precision, and it worked. Even her
jewelry followed scent rules. Bracelets
weren't worn until after the dusting so
they wouldn't trap oil. Necklaces were
wiped with a dry cloth before touching
the skin. Gold, they believed, should
smell of metal and sun, not of sweat or
perfume. On days of rest, the full
dusting was skipped. Just a touch of oil
behind the ears and perhaps a cloth
placed beneath the pillow was enough.
But those days were rare. Most mornings
the same steps are repeated, the same
powders are ground, the same oils
stirred. Not because she had to smell
perfect, but because nothing was left
undone. The scent did not define her. It
simply confirmed what others already
assumed that she was prepared, precise,
and present. No matter how long the day
ahead, her body had been ready for it.
The oils would fade slowly. The powder
would rise with movement and no one
would think to ask what she wore. They
would only remember that she had passed
near and that the air behind her still
felt clean. Even today, a good scent can
shift a moment. In ancient Egypt, it
shaped a woman's entire day. Next, we'll
follow her into the most private room of
all. Not the bath, not the dressing
space, but the one place no visitor ever
saw. The royal toilet was built from
stone and cleaned with care. There was
one part of the royal woman's daily life
that remained completely hidden. Yet, it
was never neglected. The private
latrine, not a grand chamber, not a
decorative space, just a small enclosed
room built close to the bathing area,
designed for one function only. It was
not talked about outside the walls of
her chamber, and no outsider ever
stepped inside. Yet, like everything
else in her world, it followed a clear
routine shaped by cleanliness and
control. The toilet itself was made of
stone, it had a low seat with a smooth
surface, carved into a curved shape to
support the thighs and lower back.
Beneath the seat, there was no plumbing.
Instead, a wide clay basin was placed,
lined with layers of fine sand and pale
ash. The sand helped absorb moisture.
The ash helped neutralize the odor. The
basin was removable and cleaned after
each use. It never sat for more than a
few minutes before being taken away by a
trained servant. The servant who managed
this space did not share her duties with
others. She was assigned to the role
specifically and knew exactly how to
work without making a sound or leaving a
trace. Her tools were kept in a low
wooden box with compartments for cloths,
scoopers, and bowls of cleansing powder.
She wore gloves at all times and handled
everything in the same order, each time
without deviation.
Today, flushing a toilet takes seconds.
in the palace. Even that was a task
requiring training, rhythm, and care.
Once the basin was removed, the
remaining ash was cleared and a fresh
layer of dry material was poured into
the base. The scoop used for this had a
flat edge designed to spread the
contents evenly.
The servant then added a few drops of
scented water into the center of the
bowl. This mixture was usually a blend
of rose water and mint extract. It
didn't cover the smell by force. It
softened it and left the room fresh for
the next use. The bowl was then set
aside for scrubbing. It was rinsed three
times in a separate stone trough. First
with plain water, then with a solution
made from lemon peel and soap wart, and
finally with boiled water left to cool
under a linen cover. The basin was dried
with linen cloths used only for this
purpose. These clothes were marked with
red thread and stored in their own
container. They were replaced every 2
weeks or sooner if needed. The stone
seat itself was wiped after each use.
The cloth used for this was dipped in a
mild antiseptic solution made from
crushed fig leaves and barley water. It
was not strong, but it was enough to
keep the surface from growing sticky in
warm weather. After wiping, the surface
was left to dry for 5 minutes before the
next person was allowed in. A fan made
of woven reads helped keep air moving in
and out of the small window above the
wall. The royal woman did not speak when
she entered this space. She did not call
the servant by name. Everything was
already arranged. She stepped in alone.
When she finished, she pulled a small
cord near the door. That cord rang a
bell in the outer chamber. The servant
entered quietly, cleaned, reset, and
left. No words, no discussion. The bell
was the only signal needed. I've always
found it fascinating how silence was
used not to avoid discomfort, but to
protect dignity. Once or twice a week,
the entire latrine was deep cleaned. The
floor was scrubbed with water boiled
with lavender stems. The corners were
brushed out with long-handled brooms
made from palm fibers. The walls were
wiped with linen dipped in flour water,
and the air was refreshed with a lump of
resin placed on a small burner hidden
behind a carved screen. The royal woman
never touched the tools, but she checked
their presence. If a cloth was missing,
if a scent was off, if the basin was
slow to be replaced, it was noted, not
loudly, not in anger, but with a quiet
glance or pause. The servant knew what
it meant and corrected it by the next
visit.
The small bowl used for hand washing
after using the toilet was kept on a low
shelf beside the seat. It contained warm
water mixed with a dash of vinegar and
mint. A cloth lay beside it, folded
three times. After washing, the cloth
was dropped into a covered box and never
used again. A new one was placed there
each morning. There were no mirrors in
this space, no decorations, just
polished stone, clean tools, and fresh
air. The only item that resembled
anything ornamental was a small carved
holder for a sprig of dried herbs.
Sometimes it held basil, other times
lavender. It wasn't functional. It was
just there to remind the woman that even
in this space, care had been taken.
Compared to modern bathrooms full of
glass and chrome, this was quiet, spare,
and surprisingly peaceful. The room was
not large, just wide enough to step in,
turn, and sit. The ceiling was low. The
walls were smooth. The door had a simple
wooden latch. But the entire space
worked because it had been designed
around routine, not display. That was
what kept it clean. That was what made
it work day after day without issue. The
servant assigned to this space was
trusted. She had access to no other
rooms. She did not dress the woman or
prepare her meals. Her role was specific
and it was valued. Her knowledge of
powders, cloths, and cleaning mixtures
was passed on slowly to another girl
over time in case she fell ill. But her
presence was steady. Her job was quiet,
and no one outside the chamber ever
spoke her name. Even something as basic
as going to the toilet had been shaped
by rules, steps, and respect. The woman
never had to ask. She simply walked in
and knew everything was already in
place. Even in privacy, a queen was
never unprepared. Even in silence, her
standards were clear. Next, we'll return
to the quiet of the bedroom where linens
were changed, perfumes were wiped away,
and sleep began with warm oil on the
soles of the feet. If modern bedrooms
are places to rest, royal Egyptian
sleeping quarters were closer to
temples, not in size or luxury, but in
how carefully they were maintained.
Every part of the space was kept clear,
clean, and controlled. There were no
random objects, no dust gathered in
corners, and no loose fabric left a
wrinkle. Nothing in the room was
accidental. The way the light filtered
in, the way the scent rose from the
pillow, the way the sheets folded at
nightfall. Each was part of a structure
designed to guide the woman towards
sleep. The bed stood slightly above the
floor, built from smooth cedar, and
fitted with short legs to allow air to
pass beneath. It held a firm base
covered with layers of tightly woven
linen. The top sheet was the softest,
changed every other day, whether it
seemed dirty or not. Beneath that, a
denser weave added comfort without
trapping heat. No wool, no feathers,
only linen. The clean feeling of it
mattered more than decoration.
The pillow was flatter than those today,
stuffed not with feathers, but with
dried grass and herbs wrapped in soft
cloth. Tucked inside near the center,
was a tiny pouch. It held dried flowers,
often lavender or blue lotus, along with
crushed bark from sweet smelling trees.
The scent was mild and slow to fade. As
the head pressed down, it released just
enough fragrance to linger nearby
without overpowering the air. Compared
to today's memory foam and scented
candles, this was quiet, dry, and
somehow more honest. The pillow cover
was changed as often as the sheets,
sometimes more if the weather was warm.
The used covers were placed in a sealed
clay jar until they could be washed with
flour water and laid out to dry in the
sun. No cover was reused without being
aired. No pillow was left bare.
Everything had a cycle and everything in
that cycle returned fresh. Hanging above
the bed was a light netting curtain. It
was not thick enough to block vision,
but it broke the air gently. The curtain
was washed weekly, even if it seemed
untouched. After drying, it was misted
with a solution of rose water and
vinegar to keep insects away and leave a
faint scent. The misting was done with a
palm woven sprayer, held carefully to
avoid soaking the fabric. A few drops
were enough. Each evening followed the
same rhythm. The woman entered the room
after her final tasks of the day. A
servant pulled back the curtain and laid
out a cloth at the foot of the bed. On
the cloth were a bowl of warm water, a
folded towel, and a small jar of oil.
There was no speaking, just the soft
sound of water being poured, and the
brushing of cloth against skin. Her
hands and face were rinsed first. A
second towel was used to dry them. Then
her feet were placed in a small basin
lined with smooth pebbles and filled
with warm water. After a minute or two,
she lifted them out and the servant
dried them with a different towel, one
used only for this step. Then came the
oil. It was not thick. It didn't leave
the skin sticky, usually made from
sesame or moringa. It had a faint nutty
smell, softened with a drop of myrr. The
oil was rubbed into the soles, the
heels, and the sides of the feet, not
massaged, just applied and smoothed with
steady hands. No other part of the body
was touched after the final wash. The
idea was not to clean again, but to
settle the body into stillness. I find
it calming to think they prepared for
sleep the way others prepared for
prayer. The bed was entered from one
side only. The curtain was lowered after
she lay down. A light cloth was draped
over her, never too heavy. If the
weather was warm, a cooling block of
polished stone was placed beneath the
pillow. If it was cold, a warmed linen
wrap was folded at her feet. The room
stayed dim, lit only by a single oil
lamp shielded behind a carved screen.
Before the servant left, she made one
final check. The water bowls were
removed. The towels were collected.
The scent pouch beneath the pillow was
checked by touch to make sure it had not
shifted. The curtain edges were adjusted
to make sure the air inside the bed
remained even, and then the door was
pulled shut. There was no lock, but no
one entered again until morning unless
summoned. The bedroom was not a place
for discussion or visitors. It was
private in the deepest sense, not
because it was secret, but because it
was sacred. The woman's rest was part of
her preparation, and without it,
everything else would fall out of
rhythm. Modern sleep hygiene is filled
with rules, but few feel as graceful as
oil on the soles of the feet. Some women
had music before bed. A harp played
softly from an adjacent room. Others
preferred silence. A light breeze might
be allowed to enter through a narrow
window. A fan could be positioned to
move the air slowly, but always the
scent and the softness of linen took
precedence.
Those were the signs that the day had
closed and the body could finally
settle. Even the position she slept in
was familiar, usually on her side, with
one arm under the pillow and the other
along her hip. The blanket folded once,
never tangled. The pillow was barely
dented, nothing over stuffed, nothing
left to chance. And in that stillness,
sleep arrived. I sometimes wonder if
their dreams felt cleaner, too. Next,
we'll step outside the bedroom and into
the ritual of the morning when oil is
replaced with powder and the scent of
sleep gives way to the start of a new
day. If a modern spa offers choices of
steam rooms and scented oils, the
Egyptian royal version required no such
variety. It had one room, always the
same, and it worked. This room was not
large, but it was built with care. Thick
walls, a narrow doorway, a small open
window high on one side to let smoke
escape, but keep warmth inside. At its
center sat a low stone stove, not
glowing red, just warm enough to release
steam, never flames. This was the steam
chamber of a royal woman, and it was not
for cleaning. It was for softening. She
entered not to scrub, but to sit,
wrapped in a thin cloth, her skin
already clean from bathing. Her body
relaxed. The heat was slow, rising from
the stove as drops of oil and petals
were added. A servant knelt nearby,
holding a small wooden bowl filled with
dried flowers, leaves, and prepared
oils, one handful at a time. She
sprinkled the mix into a carved bowl
that rested over the heated stone. It
hissed but softly.
The room filled with the scent of myrr,
lotus, dried mint, and something deeper.
An undertone that came from resin soaked
days earlier. The warmth was not wet
like today's steam. It did not drip or
stick. It floated fine and even, warming
the limbs from the inside. The air
stayed quiet. No rushing water, no
chatter, only the gentle rise of scent.
She sat for 10 or 15 minutes, never
longer, just until her skin glowed
faintly, and the first sheen of moisture
gathered behind her neck and at the bend
of her elbows. Compared to electric
steam rooms today, this one asked for
patience and silence.
Once enough time had passed, the servant
placed a wide linen sheet across the
woman's shoulders and helped at her
feet. She stepped slowly, barefoot
across smooth floor tiles cooled by
shade. A second servant waited outside
the room with a basin of warm water and
folded cloths. No drying with force, no
rubbing.
The body was patted gently. The cloth
held firm in one hand and blotted in
small circles. From shoulders to ankles,
every spot was touched only once. The
towel never dragged. The aim was not to
remove all heat, just to absorb the
excess. The linen cloth that wrapped her
body after the steam session was not her
regular robe. It was thinner, looser,
woven to allow air to pass through while
holding scent close to the skin.
The fabric was often perfumed days in
advance and stored in a clay jar with
dried flowers. Once draped over her, it
became a soft carrier of the steam's
fragrance. Her skin was warm. Her
posture is loose. Her mind is clear. The
final step was the hair. Steam had
softened the strands and opened the
pores beneath the scalp. The servant
stepped behind her with a small glass
bottle of oil and a comb. The oil was
made from pressed lotus seed mixed with
a little almond. It was not sticky. It
ran easily between fingers and settled
lightly. A few drops were placed on the
roots, then comb through with slow
strokes. No tugging. The hair, real or
artificial, had been prepared earlier.
This step refreshed it. I like that
their beauty routines always ended with
calm, not fuss. No one rushed to dress
her afterward. There was a pause, a
short one, just enough time for the body
to breathe. If the day allowed, she
might stay like this for an hour,
walking slowly around her chamber,
sitting by the window, drinking a cup of
cold water steeped with herbs. No one
called for her. No one entered. This was
a part of her day that no one
questioned. The stone stove in the steam
room was cleaned afterward. The ashes
swept. The bowl was washed. The room was
left open to dry. Nothing lingered. The
smell did not stick. Every part of the
process was light, designed to leave no
burden behind. Even the flower petals
used in the steam were dried again if
they had not broken down and reused
later to perfume linens.
The stone used in the stove had been
selected for its ability to hold heat
evenly.
It was brought from the Nile, shaped by
hand, and set into the floor long before
the woman ever set foot into the
chamber. Once in place, it was never
removed. Some women preferred a stove
shaped like a basin. Others chose a
wide, flat surface, but all used it the
same way, slowly with intention. This
steam ritual was not daily. Some did it
every third day, others once a week. It
depended on season, mood, and schedule.
But whenever it happened, it marked a
reset. The body left the room renewed,
not by effort, but by softness. No
scrubbing, no scraping, just heat,
scent, cloth, and oil. Modern spa
routines promise results, but sometimes
forget how to be still. And perhaps
that's what made these routines so
effective. They weren't about fixing
flaws. They were about preserving peace.
A woman left the steam chamber not with
glowing skin alone, but with a sense of
having returned to herself.
Not polished, just steadied. Next, we'll
step from warmth to ritual, where even
the act of applying makeup followed
rules older than writing itself. If you
thought hygiene meant bathing and oils
alone, you'd be surprised by how often
their hands took center stage in a
palace where luxury met strict custom.
One of the simplest but most carefully
maintained rules involved the act of
touching, or rather the act of not
touching directly.
A royal woman was expected to avoid
placing bare hands on any surface
considered impure or unwashed. And in
the heat and dust of Egypt, most things
fell into that category. Each private
room had at least one linen cloth
hanging by the doorway. It was always
folded into a square hanging from a
bronze hook or laid over a narrow stone
ledge. These clothes were meant for the
hands, not just to dry them, but to
protect them. before she opened a wooden
chest, adjusted a stool, picked up a
fruit, or parted the curtain to enter
another space. She reached for the cloth
first. Some rooms had two cloths, one
clean, one already used. Others had a
system where the cloth was placed into a
ceramic bowl once used so that no one
mixed them up. The cloth was not large,
usually just enough to cover the palm.
It was folded again and again so that
fingers never touched its outermost
surface. When she reached for the
curtain cord, she held the cloth between
her fingers and the fabric. When she
sat, a servant placed a folded cloth on
the armrest before she lowered her hand.
When dining, she would not touch the
plate itself. The cloth, now a thin
barrier, served both a practical and a
symbolic purpose. It's amusing to think
how a single piece of linen became more
essential than the seat itself. These
weren't the soft towels used for drying
after a bath. They were made from
slightly rougher linen, often with a
hemmed edge and a small stitch symbol to
denote the room it belonged to. Some
bore a color thread to indicate
rotation. Red for morning, blue for the
evening. If a cloth was ever dropped, it
was discarded for the day and replaced.
Servants checked their placement several
times during daylight hours. At night,
fewer were needed, but one always
remained near the bedpost. Should the
royal woman wake and need to touch
anything, the rule extended beyond
furniture. When it came to food, only
the inner parts of fruit or bread were
ever touched with bare hands, and even
then, only after a rinse or a blessing.
Peels, re and shells were never to be
touched without a barrier. Fishbones,
nuts, seeds, and anything oily or sticky
were to be handled with a cloth or
wooden tool. In fact, for every five
dishes served, at least one clean cloth
was expected on the tray beside them.
Compared to how casually we opened doors
or scroll screens today, their hands
moved with quiet ceremony. It wasn't
paranoia, it was routine. Dust clung to
everything. Sweat spread easily.
and fragrance so carefully applied
earlier in the day could be disturbed by
just one careless grab of a warm bronze
handle. The cloth preserved more than
cleanliness. It preserved the balance
between scent, touch, and appearance.
A clean hand remained perfumed longer. A
perfumed hand left no oily stain. A
clean cloth ensured no servant's mistake
became her burden. every evening once
the royal woman had retired to her
private chambers. The used cloths from
each room were collected by two
designated servants. One held a log
board, a polished piece of wood with
grooves for tallying. The other carried
a wide basket lined with fresh linen. As
each cloth was collected, it was checked
for condition, color, and placement. If
any cloth was missing, the name of the
last servant in that room was noted. If
any cloth appeared overly worn or
stained, it was removed from the
rotation and either discarded or sent
for reweaving.
I find it strangely satisfying that
something as small as a hand towel was
treated with more accountability than
most modern gadgets. The longboard was
brought to the steward's quarters where
counts were compared against expected
usage. On days with ceremonies or
guests, usage doubled on fasting days or
religious holidays. It is harved, but
the pattern was steady. The clothes did
not change in size or material, only in
number and schedule. Once a week, they
were boiled in water, scented with reed
oil, and laid out on smooth slate tiles
to dry. These tiles, warmed by the sun,
ensured that the cloths retained a crisp
fold and did not warp at the corners.
Each royal woman had her own cloth
rotation, though the practice extended
beyond her chambers. In the guest
quarters, the same rules applied. Even
in the garden aloves or bathing
courtyards, small cloths were folded and
tucked under clay lids to stay clean. It
was never a question of whether to use
them, only when to replace them. If a
cloth was missing, it wasn't an
inconvenience. It was a small scandal.
Perhaps that is why the habit endured so
long. Generations passed, palaces
changed, but the cloth remained. Not
just a symbol of cleanliness, but of
control in a world where touch could
mean contamination. The cloth restored a
little peace. Next, we'll take a closer
look at one of the oldest beauty tools
in her collection. Shaped from ivory and
held with pride across generations.
If personal hygiene was strict in daily
life, it became even more serious after
intimacy. For royal women in ancient
Egypt, physical closeness came with
responsibilities, not just emotions.
There was a detailed routine that had to
be followed every single time. It wasn't
seen as optional. It was considered part
of preserving one's health, one's
fertility, and even one's spiritual
balance. After any sexual contact, the
first step was immediate cleansing. The
woman would be brought a warm solution,
usually infused with salt, aloe vera,
and crushed hibiscus leaves. The mixture
was prepared fresh for each occasion. It
was slightly thicker than plain water
and had a gentle scent that masked any
bodily smell. The warmth helped soothe
the area, and the salt acted as a mild
disinfectant. The aloe was added to
prevent irritation, especially after
frequent activity. This cleansing was
done in private, but it was never left
to the woman alone.
A personal maid, often the same one
assigned for body care, was trained
specifically for this task. She would
prepare the basin, adjust the
temperature, and hand over the right
cloths. These clothes were always
separate from any others. They were made
of soft linen, often stitched at the
edge with a small symbol to mark their
purpose. Some bore the outline of a
lotus petal, others just a simple thread
color. The act itself wasn't hurried.
The woman sat on a smooth stone stool
placed over a low basin. The cloth was
dipped, gently squeezed, and pressed
against the skin in small motions. The
goal was not only to clean, but to do so
without causing any friction.
Afterwards, a second cloth was used to
pat dry. The water in the basin was
discarded outside, never reused. The
clothes were either burned or taken to
be handwashed separately, always in a
warm herbal rinse and hung where no one
could see. To consider the numerous
steps involved after just one moment of
closeness makes modern routines look
incredibly simple. The reasons behind
this care went beyond comfort. Ancient
Egyptians believed that improper
cleansing after intimacy could block
fertility. They thought lingering
fluids, if not cleaned properly, could
harm the womb or interfere with
conception. Some even believe that
spirits attached themselves to bodily
fluids left unwashed. Whether or not
anyone truly saw this happen didn't
matter. The belief was strong, and so
the ritual remained. Older women in the
palace passed down instructions to the
younger ones. They shared which herbs
worked best after certain days. If the
woman was menrating or recently
pregnant, the solution might include
additional ingredients like mint or
chamomile. If it was her first time,
special oils were applied to calm the
skin. Nothing was left to guess work.
Everything had a formula, a sequence, a
reason. This makes me think about how
much control ancient systems exerted
over something so personal, yet how much
comfort those routines may have also
brought. The space for this cleansing
was usually a small private chamber
connected to the bathing area. It had
only what was needed, a low stool, a
flat stone slab for setting the bowl, a
shelf for herbs and oils, a jug of water
always stayed nearby, covered in a
cloth. The room was lit with one oil
lamp during the evening or left open to
sunlight during the day. There were no
mirrors, no perfumes, no distractions.
It was purely functional. The women took
this routine seriously. Even if they
were tired or it was late at night, the
process had to be completed. Skipping it
wasn't just a breach of etiquette. It
was seen as careless, possibly harmful.
In noble households, the process was
recorded in a small log, a tick next to
the day, a mark for whether the rinse
was used. Warned Heather there were any
signs of soreness or discomfort.
These notes were shared with the house's
chief caretaker, usually an older woman
with experience and quiet authority.
Younger women were often nervous the
first few times, but over time it became
second nature, a rhythm, something done
in silence, like brushing one's hair or
folding one's robe. It was part of being
a woman in that world. Private but
essential. Compared to today when
personal care is a private matter, the
ancient world handled it like a shared
responsibility with quiet rituals and
subtle supervision. Some scholars argue
that this practice also served another
function. It gave women a moment to be
still, to pay attention to themselves.
In a world where expectations were
constant and every movement watched,
these few minutes of washing, oiling,
and breathing quietly may have offered a
kind of pause. Not quite peace, but
close. And in the royal palace, even
this had its hierarchy. Some women had
better oils, more fragrant cloths, or
thicker cushions to sit on. The highest
ranked ones had silver basins. Others
made do with polished clay, but the
process remained the same. From the
queen down to her nieces, all followed
it, and all were expected to treat it as
sacred. Even the scents were carefully
chosen. Floral notes were considered
cooling. Earthier ones like myrrh and
sandalwood were used when the body felt
sore. Everything was part of a larger
understanding of how body and spirit
interacted. This wasn't just about
hygiene. It was about maintaining
balance, harmony. And that balance
started with being clean. Even when no
one else would see, the women didn't
speak about it openly. There was no
need. A glance toward the basin, the
cloth folded on the shelf, or a scent in
the hallway was enough to say it had
been done. It was quiet, respectful, and
expected. Some modern readers might find
it too much, but for them it was normal,
routine, a matter of pride. It's a
little funny to think how many of our
most intimate routines today were
already perfected thousands of years
ago, just with better smelling water and
less privacy. Next, we'll follow what
happened once the woman was cleansed and
dressed again. How even her scent,
posture, and breath had to align with
the rituals of royal composure.
Routine hygiene was never considered
complete without one quiet but vital
task. The regular inspection of the body
by a dedicated female attendant was part
of daily life for noble Egyptian women.
It wasn't enough to look beautiful or
smell clean. Their skin, hair, and nails
had to be constantly watched for the
tiniest sign of trouble. A rash, a
crack, or a change in tone was never
ignored. Every part of the body was
treated like a precious object that
needed constant care. This was not a
role left to chance. Certain women in
the palace were trained specifically for
this task. These attendants, known for
their calm and silent presence, were
selected for their steady hands and
careful eyes. They were not doctors, but
they were experts in the body. They knew
every freckle, every vein, and every
fold of the royal woman's skin. Their
job was not to speak, but to see. The
inspection began at the same time each
day, shortly after sunrise. The woman
sat on a soft stool draped in linen. The
room was always cool, shaded by thick
curtains and scented with soft oils. The
attendant entered quietly, her sandals
making almost no sound against the stone
floor. She carried a rolled cloth, a
small jar of oil, and a polished wooden
stick for notekeeping. She would bow
once, then begin her work without a
word. She started at the face. Using a
linen cloth lightly moistened with rose
water, she wiped the forehead, cheeks,
and chin. Her eyes scanned for any
irritation or uneven tone. Redness,
dryness, or blemishes were all noted.
Then came the neck and shoulders. With
smooth, slow motions, she examined the
skin texture. If a patch of dryness was
found, she applied a thin layer of honey
balm for bumps or roughness. She used a
paste made from powdered herbs and
called clay. The arms came next. Elbows
were gently pressed. Wrists were turned.
She checked the unders sides of the
forearms where heat rash sometimes
appeared. She touched nothing directly
with her bare hands. Every contact was
through cloth, oil, or a layer of balm.
Her movements were steady, practiced,
and without hesitation. She had done
this hundreds of times, always in the
same order, always without fuss.
Honestly, it was like having a personal
quality control inspector. But for your
skin, after the upper body, the legs
were carefully reviewed, knees, shins,
ankles, and even soles of the feet. A
small rough patch was enough reason for
treatment. She would apply a mix of oil
and ground pummus with the tip of her
cloth. Calluses were softened, not
scraped. Nothing was rushed. The idea
was not to fix problems in one day, but
to prevent them from becoming worse over
time. The goal was consistency. The
fingers and toes were given special
attention. Nails were inspected for
cracks, dullness, or color change. Each
nail was polished using a tiny pad made
from woven reads. Then a drop of oil was
applied at the base to protect the
cuticle. Nails were neither long nor
painted.
Clean, smooth, and wellshaped was the
standard. Sometimes henna was used to
tint them slightly red, but only for
ceremonial days. Hair was the final part
of the inspection. Whether real or
artificial, it was always brushed gently
from root to end. The attendant would
pause if she noticed thinning spots or
dryness. A few strands in the brush were
normal. More than that meant extra care
was needed. She would bring a mask made
of fig paste or apply oil drops to the
scalp and let it soak overnight. Once a
week, there was a longer and more
complete check. This monthly ritual
involved multiple attendants. one
focused on the skin, one on the hair,
and one on the nails. They worked
quietly around the woman as she reclined
on a long couch. Every note was recorded
in a scroll kept in a stone drawer near
her chamber. If something needed
treatment, it was done then and there.
Compared to modern skin care routines,
they were surprisingly far ahead of
their time. Most nobles accepted this as
a normal part of life. It wasn't
considered intrusive or excessive.
Instead, it was seen as a responsibility
like brushing one's teeth today.
Cleanliness was linked to health and
health to beauty. One could not risk
being surprised by illness. The body had
to be understood, not just displayed. I
find it strangely comforting that
someone once knew your skin better than
you did yourself. Even for young girls,
these inspections began early. From the
age of seven or eight, a female child of
noble birth would receive weekly checks.
It wasn't to make her feel
self-conscious, but to help her learn
the rhythms of her body. The attendants
would teach by example. Over time, the
girl would come to expect the gentle
pressure of the cloth, the smell of the
oil, the calm presence of the woman who
never spoke too much. At the end of each
session, a bowl of warm water was
brought in. The woman would wash her
hands and feet again, then lie still for
a moment before resuming her day. The
cloths were folded and removed, the oil
jars sealed. The room was quietly aired
out and left fresh for the next visit.
The system was smooth, respectful, and
effective. The body was not something to
fear or hide, but something to care for
with steadiness and patience. Nothing
dramatic, no grand treatments, just
daily attention like watering a plant.
And just like a garden, it flourished
under quiet hands. In the next part,
we'll step behind the curtain into the
space where no stranger was allowed to
follow. Where modesty wasn't just about
being clean, but about being unseen.
Privacy was not a luxury for royal
Egyptian women. It was an expectation, a
right, and a visible sign of status.
Unlike common women who might share
bathing spaces or use public wells,
royal women had their own reserve
chambers for anything related to
hygiene. These were not just hidden
rooms in the corner of a palace. They
were carefully designed spaces where no
one could intrude without explicit
permission. Curtains made of heavy linen
hung from ceiling rails. Doors were
locked from within. Even the walls
themselves were sometimes thickened or
padded to prevent noise from escaping.
The act of bathing, cleansing, or simply
brushing one's hair was shielded from
all eyes. The women who served them were
given precise instructions. They waited
outside the bathing area until they were
summoned by name. No glances were
allowed. Heads had to remain bowed.
Instructions were often delivered in
whispers, and responses came only when
necessary.
Some maids even learned to work by feel
alone, eyes shut or focused on the floor
to avoid any impression of disrespect.
In cases where a body needed to be
washed or dried, the attendant would use
a cloth as a barrier between her hands
and the skin. This was not just about
modesty. It was about reinforcing a
clear hierarchy, one invisible wall at a
time. These rules weren't written down,
but they were known, passed down from
older attendants to new ones, reinforced
through daily routines. Even a small
breach of privacy could mean dismissal.
Some women had been serving the same
noble for decades, and they knew exactly
how far to stand, how to move without
making a sound, how to avoid even the
softest eye contact. The job required
more than obedience. It required
discretion, patience, and an ability to
almost disappear. When it came time for
intimate care, the barriers went
further. A second layer of cloth might
be added to the curtains.
Incense would be lit to signal a need
for extra privacy. The woman inside
might hum softly, not for pleasure, but
to mask the sounds of bathing or wiping.
Some had their own small music players
or water fountains installed in their
rooms to muffle all noise. In many
cases, a woman would spend hours
preparing herself for a ritual or event,
and not one soul would know how it had
been done. The final appearance was
meant to feel effortless, like beauty
had emerged from silence.
Modern spars might offer scented rooms
and soft music, but very few offer the
sacred solitude that Egyptian royals
took for granted. Among royal families,
privacy was also tied to morality. Being
seen naked, even by another woman, could
be seen as a flaw in discipline. Girls
were raised from a young age to cover
themselves completely, even in the
safety of their own quarters.
They learned how to wrap towels without
exposing a shoulder, how to adjust their
robes with only one hand while the other
kept their chest covered. These were not
overreactions. They were social codes
embedded deep into the culture. At
times, even doctors were denied full
access. Some royal women refused to be
examined without layers of cloth between
them and the healer. Descriptions of
symptoms were given by handmaidadens
instead. Observations were made from
afar, and treatments had to be applied
by intermediaries. The result was a
medical system that worked around
boundaries, not through them. It might
sound like a recipe for mistakes, but it
also prevented abuse in a time when
power could easily be misused. When
visiting temples or sacred sites,
privacy rules became even stricter. Some
women would travel with mobile
partitions or canopies carried by
servants. These could be set up within
minutes, allowing them to wash, change,
or rest without exposing themselves.
A full team of attendants would manage
the cloth, the oils, the towels, and the
perfume, all while remaining virtually
invisible. Their movements were
choreographed like dancers, each step
practiced and discreet. Cleanliness
itself was often judged by how invisible
the process had been. If someone looked
and smelled fresh, but no one had
witnessed the act, it was seen as ideal.
Not because people disliked cleanliness,
but because the act of achieving it was
supposed to remain hidden. It was part
of the mystique of royalty. To glow
without sweat, to smell sweet without
evidence, to appear refreshed without
letting the world see the water. There's
a kind of power in that when even your
silence feels expensive. Of course, not
all royals were the same. Some embraced
a little more visibility, a glimpse of
perfume being applied to the neck, the
sound of a sandal being placed gently on
a clean foot. But even these moments
were orchestrated, planned. No gesture
was spontaneous.
Everything served to elevate the image
of refinement and self-control. The
message was simple. A noble woman was
not just clean. She was clean without
effort, untouched by the world's
messiness. For those living outside the
palace, the secrecy was almost mythical.
Stories spread about hidden marble
chambers, golden bowls of water, and
towels so fine they were never used
twice. Some of it was true, some was
imagination, but it added to the aura.
Few ever saw a royal woman wash her
hands, let alone her body. That was the
point. I often wonder how much of their
daily life felt real to them and how
much felt like living behind a curtain.
In today's world, privacy is a setting
on a phone. For them, it was a physical
space constantly guarded. And when your
rank depended on never being seen, even
hygiene became a performance of
invisibility.
The next layer of this delicate routine
takes us to the jewelry box. Because
even gold and ivory had to be scrubbed
before it was considered fit to touch a
royal body. Even the smallest objects in
a royal woman's possession had to meet
the same standards of cleanliness and
care as her body. Jewelry, combs, and
hairpins were not treated as mere
accessories. They were personal
extensions of her hygiene, her identity,
and her reputation.
If they touched her skin or hair, they
were cleaned, scented, and stored with
the same level of caution as her
clothing or bedding. Once a week, a
specific cleaning ritual took place. A
quiet morning, usually on the same day
each week, was reserved for attending to
these items. A servant would prepare a
basin of floral water mixed with diluted
oils and line a low table with a soft
linen cloth. Necklaces, rings, earrings,
and combs were brought out from their
cedarwood boxes. These boxes were lined
with perfumed linen, sometimes
embroidered, and always stored in dry,
shaded places. Each item was handled
carefully. The servant wore thin linen
gloves to avoid transferring oil or
sweat from their hands.
Every surface of each item was gently
rubbed with a soft cloth dipped in the
fragrant mixture. Combs were cleaned
between each tooth using thin twigs or
pieces of silk string, ensuring no dust
or residue was left behind. In a world
without ultrasonic cleaners, a soft
cloth and steady hands were the next
best thing. This cleaning wasn't just
about hygiene. It was about
preservation. Gold could lose its shine
if left dirty. Scents could mingle
unpleasantly if oils from the skin were
allowed to settle. Worse, an unclean
comb could carry flakes or buildup back
into freshly cleaned hair, undoing hours
of care. That risk was simply
unacceptable. These objects were not
mass- prodduced. A carved ivory comb
might take weeks to make. A lapis lazuli
pendant could be handed down through
three generations. So cleaning them was
as much a ritual of respect as it was of
hygiene. When the servant finished, each
piece was aired gently near a window to
dry, then returned to its designated
place. Some had individual cloth wraps,
others fit into carved grooves inside
the box. Each noble woman had her own
preferred way of arranging her items.
Some liked them, sorted by material.
Others arranged them by use, but all
shared the same rule. No one was to
touch them unless assigned and trained.
A dropped earring was not just an
accident. It was an offense. There were
punishments for clumsiness, especially
when it involved sacred or valuable
objects. It's almost funny how much more
respect ancient jewelry got than most
modern gadgets. Hair tools required
equal attention. Combs, pins, and hair
pieces were cleaned not only to remove
oil and hair residue, but to refresh
them with scent before being stored.
They were often wiped with a cloth
dipped in rose oil or sandalwood. Then
they were placed in a small pouch or
drawer containing dried flowers or
crushed resin. That way, when used next,
they would already carry a faint
fragrance. The scent mattered. A clean
appearance was not enough. A noble
woman's scent was part of how she was
perceived. If her earrings smelled
faintly of jasmine, if her hair comb
left a trace of cedar, that wasn't
accidental. It was curated. It was part
of how she walked into a room. There's
something strangely soothing about the
idea of caring so deeply for tiny
objects. It says a lot about their sense
of order and beauty. These practices
were often passed down from one
generation to the next. A mother would
teach her daughter how to hold a comb
properly while cleaning it. She would
explain which oils worked best with
which stones. She might even gift her a
box already prepared with compartments.
When the daughter reached a certain age,
these objects were personal, yes, but
they were also part of a shared female
heritage. In larger households, there
were sometimes a dedicated servant whose
only task was to care for personal
items. She knew which pieces belong to
whom, and she kept a log of cleaning
days. She might be summoned to freshen
an item before an important visit or
resent a comb before bedtime. Her work
was invisible but vital. The same logic
applied across the household. Just as a
royal woman's linens were washed
regularly and her perfumes refreshed.
Her tools of adornment followed a
pattern. The rhythm of hygiene extended
from the skin to everything that touched
it. And when done properly, it made the
entire environment feel consistent,
pleasant, and controlled.
There were also times when cleaning took
on symbolic meaning. During morning or
illness, certain jewelry was locked away
and not touched. During festivals or
renewal ceremonies, all items were
brought out and cleaned as a sign of
fresh beginnings. The act of cleaning
became an emotional marker tied not only
to habits but to major life events.
Sometimes entire sets of items were
retired. A comb might be wrapped and
buried with a relative. A ring might be
stored forever after a divorce. And in
each case, it wasn't simply discarded.
It was honored, handled, and cleaned one
last time before being put away. It is
remarkable to think how much attention
was given to objects most of us would
overlook. But in a culture where scent,
order, and personal boundaries were held
sacred, this level of care made sense.
It wasn't just about wealth or pride. It
was a kind of discipline, a kind of
intimacy with the world around you. The
care of jewelry and grooming tools
reveals how Egyptian noble women
extended their hygiene beyond the body.
Their understanding of cleanliness
included everything the skin touched.
And that made their world feel more
complete, more structured, and perhaps
more thoughtful than our own. Next,
we'll step into the world of public
appearances and how hygiene played a
role in how they sat, walked, and
entered a room. When a major event
approached, such as a temple ceremony or
a royal wedding, the preparation for an
Egyptian noble woman did not start on
the same day. It began days in advance,
sometimes a full week before. Every
surface of the body, every strand of
hair, and every thread of clothing had
to meet a higher standard. The goal was
not only to be clean or presentable. It
was to become an embodiment of sacred
order, unmarred by dust, odor, or floor.
Royal women believed their physical
appearance reflected not just their
wealth, but their connection to the
divine. Therefore, their hygiene rituals
grew even more detailed before such
moments. The process started with a full
body exfoliation.
Attendants used pastes made from fine
sand, crushed lotus seeds, and oil. The
mixture was spread across the body,
allowed to dry, and then gently rubbed
away, taking with it any dead skin and
dullness. The next step was bathing in
perfumed water. For three consecutive
days, the woman would immerse herself in
warm infusions of cedar, frankincense,
and myrr. This wasn't a quick bath. She
would sit in silence for nearly an hour,
letting the scents penetrate every pore.
Afterward, she was wrapped in warm
towels and allowed to rest. The idea was
to clean from the outside in and to
soften every texture before the big day.
On the second day, Henna was prepared.
The paste, dark and earthy, was applied
to the fingers and toes, sometimes in
intricate designs, but often just as a
rich reddish brown stain. The nails were
cleaned, filed, and rubbed with oils
before the henna was set. Once it dried,
it left behind a soft sheen that made
the hands appear both stronger and more
delicate. The symbolism of henna went
beyond beauty. It was tied to fertility,
purity, and readiness. It is funny how
in modern times, people use nail polish
for fashion. While back then, a color on
your fingers could mean a new chapter of
life was beginning. Hair required its
own treatment. Most royal women wore
wigs made of tightly braided human hair
or plant fibers. And these wigs were
dyed in dark colors just before
ceremonial events. Jet black was
preferred. It created contrast against
the pale linens and gold accessories.
The dye was made from indigo or powdered
minerals and applied by hand. After
coloring, the wigs were dried on carved
wooden stands in sunlight and lightly
perfumed using sandalwood oil. These
wigs were brushed with ivory combs,
sectioned carefully, and sometimes
decorated with gold clasps or floral
pins. The body itself was not left
untouched.
After the three rounds of bathing, a
final layer of oil was applied. This oil
was made from almond or moringa seeds
mixed with powdered rose petals. It was
massaged into the skin slowly, inch by
inch. The scent lingered faintly, never
overwhelming. The skin became soft,
gleaming, almost luminous under candle
light.
This careful layering of treatments made
them glow not from makeup but from
consistency and discipline.
On the morning of the ceremony, the
garments were brought out. These were
not everyday robes. They were made from
fine linen, often bleached to a
brilliant white and embroidered with
metallic threads. Gold, bronze, and
copper were used to stitch sacred
patterns onto the borders. Some included
symbols of Isis or Hatheror. Others had
geometric weaves that shimmerred as the
wearer moved. These garments had been
stored in stone chests with dried herbs
and incense to preserve their freshness.
Before wearing them, they were unwrapped
by gloved attendants and aired in shaded
courtyards. Each piece of jewelry had
also been cleaned. Gold bracelets, heavy
necklaces, gemstone rings, and detailed
earrings were polished until no tarnish
remained. The oils from human skin could
dull these items quickly, so gloves were
worn during the cleaning and handling.
Jewels were matched to the outfit in
advance, and no substitutions were made
on the day of the event. Everything was
planned with precision. From the weight
of a necklace to the length of a hem,
nothing was left to chance.
Once dressed, the noble woman would be
inspected by a trusted older servant.
This inspection was not judgmental. It
was procedural. Wrinkles in the fabric
would be smoothed. A clasp might be
repositioned. If a hair had escaped its
braid, it would be tucked back in place.
This final look was quiet. The room was
usually lit only by indirect light. No
loud praise or commentary, just calm
movements and final adjustments. There
is something incredibly soothing about a
moment when everything is ready and no
one needs to speak. In some cases,
perfumed smoke was released in the room
just before the woman left. A small pan
of glowing charcoal would be sprinkled
with resin and herbs, allowing the scent
to cling lightly to the clothing.
This was especially important for
weddings where a bride was expected to
carry a scent that lasted into the
night. The perfume was not just for
others to enjoy. It was a marker of
ritual, a signal that the transition
from ordinary to ceremonial had begun.
On the day of the event, women often
moved more slowly, not from nervousness,
but from intention. Each gesture was
calculated. Each breath was steady.
Their appearance was not just their own.
It represented their family, their
household, even their gods. In this way,
the body became a sacred vessel wrapped
in fabric and protected by scent. It was
not about seduction. It was about
symbolism. I sometimes wonder whether
they ever felt like themselves in those
layers, or if they simply became the
role they had prepared for. Compared to
today's rushed showers and 5-minute
makeup routines, their process feels
like preparing to enter a holy space.
And maybe the strangest thing is that
all of this effort, all of this beauty
was meant to seem effortless.
Soon, we'll look at what happened once
the ceremonies were over. How all the
glittering surfaces had to be gently
wiped away, and the woman returned to
quiet, clean simplicity.
Cleanliness was never just a surface
concern in the lives of Egyptian royal
women. It wasn't merely about looking
polished or wearing fine perfume. It was
a language of its own. The quieter, more
delicate, more fragrant a woman
appeared, the more she was respected.
Silence of scent, lightness of foot,
purity of skin. These things didn't just
indicate discipline. They indicated
power. The cleaner she was, the more
sacred she seemed, and the more sacred
she seemed, the closer she stood to the
gods. In a court full of perfumes, oils,
and linen, those who mastered the art of
staying clean without flaunting it had
the highest status. Not every woman in
the palace had access to the best oils,
the softest towels, or the most private
baths. But those in the highest ranks,
especially queens and high priestesses,
were known for a kind of quiet elegance.
They moved through rooms without leaving
a trace. No body odor, no clinging
sweat, no visible dust. Their presence
was marked not by noise, but by the
faintest aroma of flowers or incense.
Attendant spoke of certain women as if
they were untouchable, not because they
were cruel, but because they were
flawless. Their garments never wrinkled.
Their hair never appeared undone, their
breath always fresh, their steps always
clean. And yet achieving that state
required hours of effort, dozens of
tools, and a full team of women whose
only job was to maintain it. There's
something ironic in the idea that being
effortlessly clean required so much
behind-the-scenes effort. This level of
hygiene was not only about health. It
was a symbol. To smell fresh meant your
servants did their jobs well. To wear
unstained linen meant your house was
well managed. To be able to bathe in
oils rather than plain water showed
wealth. Cleanliness then became a visual
and sensory code. It said, "I have
control. I am above filth. I am set
apart." The palace itself reinforced
this idea.
Certain quarters were reserved only for
the most refined. Their floors were
scrubbed daily. Their bedding changed
twice a week, and their water infused
with herbs no one else could afford.
Those born into higher status began
their days with lavender rinses and
ended them with sandalwood massages. A
servant would always stand by with a
cloth, ready to wipe away a single drop
of sweat. Even after a short walk, a
noble woman would stop to be dusted,
refreshed, and reoiled.
In our world of shared bathrooms and
quick showers, the idea of being
constantly attended to like this feels
almost unreal. But for them, this was
normal. It was expected. Women who fell
short of these expectations could
quickly lose favor. Rumors of poor
hygiene traveled faster than news of
illness. A single misstep like a stained
robe or a faint body odor could stain a
reputation for years. People remembered,
whispered, avoided. This obsession with
cleanliness even influenced how royal
women behaved emotionally.
Crying in public was rare, not only
because of social norms, but because
tears could smudge eyeliner or leave
salty marks on clean cheeks. Public
outbursts were frowned upon because they
risked disturbing the delicate balance
of appearance. Being well-groomed was
tied to being in control. A woman who
smelled sweet and moved gracefully was
seen as calm, wise, and worthy of
respect. It extended to personal
relationships as well. Before seeing a
guest, women would freshen their breath
with mint or clove. Before a meeting,
they might reil their hair or change
into linen robes that had been resented.
Physical intimacy required even stricter
preparation with full body cleansing,
perfuming, and attention to detail. Even
behind closed doors, the expectation of
cleanliness remained. To some extent,
this constant care was empowering. It
gave royal women a sense of order,
ritual, and identity. They weren't just
decorating themselves. They were
claiming space. They were drawing lines
around their bodies that no one could
cross without permission. They made
themselves untouchable in the best sense
of the word. But it could also be
exhausting. Maintaining this level of
refinement took time, effort, focus, and
it wasn't always about choice. A woman
born into royal blood had no other way.
She could not step out barefoot. She
could not skip her oil massage. She
could not wear the same robe two days in
a row. Sometimes I wonder if they ever
longed for the simple relief of being
unclean without consequence. There's a
quiet loneliness in being admired for
how flawless you appear because it means
you're never allowed to be anything
less. But still, most accepted the role.
It was their duty, their pride, their
inheritance. So when we think of hygiene
in ancient Egypt, we must look beyond
the soap and water. Cleanliness was tied
to dignity, to purity, to sacred order.
It was one of the pillars of royal life
just as much as gold jewelry or papyrus
scrolls. A clean body meant a clean
spirit. A clean room meant a clean mind.
And for the royal women, that meant a
kind of power that lingered long after
their footsteps faded. Cleanliness
wasn't decoration. It was a definition.
And in a world where being seen was
everything. Not being smelled was just
as important. Funny how in some ways
their clean silence spoke louder than
any title or crown. Now, as the rituals
come to an end and the oils returned to
their jars, we step away from the golden
light of the palace. The women have
retreated behind their veils. Their
rooms are quiet. Their servants gone one
for the night. Linen is folded. Lamps
are dimmed. Thank you for walking
through these halls with me. May your
dreams tonight be soft, your thoughts
fragrant, and your sleep as peaceful as
a Nile breeze. Good night.