Pear Tallow Balm: The Beef Fat Face Cream That Actually Works

Okay so I need to talk about this jar of whipped beef fat I’ve been putting on my face. I know how that sounds. Just wait.

It started because my hands were a disaster. Like, cracking and bleeding disaster. It was February, the air was that dry, static-y kind of cold, and the lotion from the drugstore—the $8.99 one in the blue bottle—wasn’t cutting it. My knuckles looked like a topographic map. I was complaining about it to my friend Sarah and she just goes, “You should try tallow.” I stared at her. “Like… beef tallow? For candles?” She laughed. “No, for your skin. It’s a thing.” I remember sitting there on my couch, the one with the weird spring that pokes you, thinking this was the weirdest suggestion I’d ever gotten. Putting beef fat on my face? That’s what my great-great-grandmother probably did before they invented, you know, actual skincare. But I was desperate. And curious. So I went down an Etsy rabbit hole at like 11 PM and found this stuff: a Whipped Tallow Balm that came in a scent called “Pear.” I figured if I was gonna smear cow fat on myself, it should at least smell nice. So I ordered it.

Why I Even Tried Beef Tallow Skincare

Look, I get it. The whole idea of beef tallow skincare sounds unhinged. My first thought was literally, “Am I about to baste myself?” It feels like a step back in time, like we should be churning butter next. We’ve spent decades being told to avoid oil, to use chemical exfoliants, to buy the $90 serum in the fancy glass dropper. The concept of just… using a pure, simple animal fat feels wrong. Or gross. Or both.

But then I started reading. And I’m not a scientist, I just Google things when I’m avoiding work. The basic idea, and someone can fact-check me on this, is that tallow from grass-fed cows is supposedly really similar to the oils our own skin makes. Like, the structure of it is close to human sebum. So instead of just sitting on top of your skin like a greasy film (which is what I was terrified of), it’s supposed to sink in and actually tell your skin, “Hey, it’s cool, I got this, you can relax.” It’s not an alien substance; it’s a familiar one. Our ancestors weren’t complete idiots, you know? They used what worked. I kept seeing people talk about it for rough hands and winter damage and even stuff like psoriasis. I was skeptical, but my hands were proof that the modern stuff wasn’t working. So. Why not?

The jar showed up a week later. Small, glass, simple label. Made in France, which felt oddly fancy for a tub of fat. I opened it.

What This Pear Tallow Balm Is Actually Like

The texture was the first surprise. I was expecting something waxy or greasy, like the Crisco in my grandma’s cupboard. It wasn’t that. It’s whipped. So it’s this really light, almost fluffy cream. You scoop a little with your finger and it feels… I don’t know, substantial but not heavy. It melts the second it touches your skin. Like, instantly. You rub it in and it’s just gone. No residue. No shiny, greasy look. That was shock number one.

Then the smell. The scent is called “Pear.” I was worried it would be like a Jolly Rancher or a cheap body spray. It’s not. It’s subtle. It’s just this really light, clean, fresh smell. Like a ripe pear but without the sugary sweetness. More like the smell of the fruit itself, with maybe something green and gentle underneath it. It’s not strong at all. It doesn’t linger. You get a whiff when you open the jar and when you first put it on, and then it fades. It’s just nice. Sophisticated, even. Which, again, feels funny to say about beef fat.

I started with my hands. That first night, I globbed it on my cracked knuckles. It absorbed so fast. My skin just drank it. It didn’t feel slick or slippery after. It felt… calm. Nourished is a word people use, I guess. It just felt better. Not fixed, but soothed. I did it again the next morning. And that night. Within three days, the cracks on my knuckles were closing up. The redness was going down. It wasn’t a miracle, but it was a direction. A very clear, “oh, this is actually doing something” direction.

So then I got brave. I put it on my face.

Putting Tallow on My Face (And What Happened)

This was the big test. My face is… finicky. Some creams make it sting. Some make it break out. The idea of putting tallow on it felt like playing Russian roulette. I did it at night, so if I woke up looking like a pepperoni pizza, only I would know.

I took a tiny bit, warmed it between my fingers, and patted it on. It melted in just like it did on my hands. My skin felt soft. Not sticky. Not tight. Just… comfortable. I went to bed half-expecting the worst.

I woke up and my face wasn’t a disaster zone. That was victory number one. But more than that, it looked good. Really good. It had this sort of quiet, healthy look. Not oily. Not shiny. Just… plump and happy. The dry patch I always get on my cheekbone in winter was gone. Completely smoothed over. I was honestly kind of mad. How could something so simple, so seemingly bizarre, work better than the complicated 10-step routine I’d tried before?

That was a few weeks ago. I’ve used it almost every night since. I’m not gonna say it’s magic, but my skin is the best it’s been in years. It’s balanced. It doesn’t get that tight, screaming feeling after I wash it. The little flakes are gone. Even the texture feels smoother. I caught my reflection in the microwave door the other day and thought, “Huh. You look okay.” And that’s the real review right there.

I got mine from this little shop on Etsy that makes it. They whip it from grass-fed beef suet, which I guess is the good stuff. It feels luxurious without the luxury price tag, you know?

Quick Questions I Get Asked

Is tallow good for skin? Yeah, I think so. From what I understand and from what my face is telling me, it works because it’s so similar to our skin’s own oils. It doesn’t just coat it—it gets absorbed and helps reinforce your skin’s own barrier. Especially for dry, angry, winter-blasted skin, it’s like giving it exactly what it’s asking for.

Does tallow balm clog pores? I was terrified of this. But for me, no. It’s non-comedogenic, which means it shouldn’t clog pores. Because it mimics sebum, my skin seems to recognize it and knows what to do with it. It sinks in instead of sitting on top. My breakouts have actually gotten better, not worse. But everyone’s skin is different, I guess.

What does the Pear tallow balm smell like? It’s a light, fresh, fruity smell. Not candy-sweet. Just like a real, juicy pear. It’s gentle and it fades quickly after you apply it. It’s just a nice little experience when you’re using it.

So yeah. That’s my story with the weird beef fat cream. I’m on my second jar now. I keep one on my nightstand and one in my bag for my hands. I told my mom about it and she thinks I’ve lost my mind, but I’m gonna get her a jar for her birthday anyway.

The whole thing made me question a lot of the complicated, expensive products I’ve bought over the years. Sometimes the simplest, oldest solution is the right one. Even if it sounds absolutely ridiculous when you try to explain it to someone. “Yeah, I use whipped beef fat from France. It’s great.” You just have to get past the weirdness.

And honestly? Once you feel how your skin reacts, the weirdness fades pretty fast. It just works. I don’t know what else to say. If your skin’s being difficult, especially in this dry weather, it might be worth a shot.