That Pear Tallow Balm I Keep on the Sink
So I’m standing there, right? It’s like 10 PM on a Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, and my face feels like it’s made of old paper. The heater’s been on all day and everything just sucks the moisture out. My foot’s asleep because I was sitting weird. And I’m looking at this little jar next to the toothpaste. The whipped tallow balm. The pear one. I got it on a whim from this Etsy shop because my normal stuff wasn’t cutting it last month. Beef fat for your face sounds… yeah. But my skin was so angry and tight and red, I was like, whatever, let’s try it. So I did. And now it just lives there. On the sink. Next to my toothbrush. It’s become this weird little non-negotiable part of my nightly tallow balm routine, which is a sentence I never thought I’d type.
I didn’t expect much. Honestly. It’s whipped beef tallow. From grass-fed cows. Made in France, apparently. The whole thing felt very fancy and also deeply strange, like using a candle on your cheeks. But the logic sort of tracks? They say it mimics human skin sebum, so it gets absorbed way deep instead of just sitting on top. Which, when your skin is freaking out from winter damage and feels sensitive all the time, starts to sound less weird and more like… maybe this will actually work.
Anyway. That night. My face was that special kind of tight where smiling feels risky.
How This Beef Tallow Thing Actually Fits In My Night
My routine is not a routine. It’s a series of events that sometimes happen. But here’s how the tallow balm sneaks in.
First, I wash my face. Sometimes with a cleanser, sometimes just with water if I’m lazy. Pat it dry but leave it a tiny bit damp. That’s key, I think. Then I do the serum thing if I remember. The vitamin C one that cost too much. Wait a minute. Let it sink in. Or don’t. I’m usually scrolling on my phone by this point, half-watching something on TV. The neighbor’s dog barks. Every night. 10:15 PM. Like clockwork.
Right. The balm.
I unscrew the lid. It smells like pear. But not like a Jolly Rancher or anything. It’s subtle. A fresh, light sweetness. Not perfume-y. Just… nice. Gentle. I scoop out a tiny bit with my finger. Like, half the size of a pea. You don’t need much. I rub it between my palms for a second—it’s solid but soft, melts immediately from your body heat—and then I just press it into my skin. Starting at my cheeks, which are always the driest. Then forehead. Chin. A little under my eyes, careful-like.
The texture is weird. In a good way. It’s not greasy. It’s not like slathering Vaseline on. It’s this whipped, airy consistency that just… vanishes. It feels rich but not heavy. My skin drinks it. Within a minute, it’s not shiny or sticky. It just feels… quiet. Calm. Protected. Like I put a really good barrier between me and the dry winter air in my apartment. I don’t know how else to describe it. It just works.
Sometimes I’ll put a bit more on any super dry patches. My elbows have been a disaster this season. So I’ll use a dab there too. Or on my knuckles, which crack and look a hundred years old. It helps. Like, actually helps.
Why I Stuck With It (The Skin Part)
Look. I’ve tried a lot of stuff. Expensive creams in fancy jars. Drugstore lotions that come in pumps. Oils that made me look like I fried chicken. For my sensitive skin, a lot of it either did nothing or made it worse. Red. Bumpy. The whole thing.
This tallow balm was different. I noticed it after maybe four days? A week? My skin just stopped feeling so frantic. The tightness after washing went away. The little dry, flaky patches around my nose and eyebrows? Gone. The overall redness I always had, especially in winter, dialed way down. It just looked… even. Healthier. Not “glowing” in that weird influencer way, but like it had what it needed. Hydrated from the inside out.
I think because it’s so similar to our own skin oils, my skin just knows what to do with it. There’s no fight. No adjustment period where it’s like “what is this foreign substance.” It’s like giving it back what the cold, dry air stole. I read it’s good for things like psoriasis too, which I don’t have, but it makes sense. It’s deeply nourishing in a very simple, no-nonsense way.
So it became a regular thing. After my shower in the morning, I’ll use a pinprick amount under my moisturizer if I’m feeling extra dry. But at night? It’s the last step. The final seal. My daily skincare with tallow is basically just this one step at the end of the day. It’s stupidly simple. And I’m on my second jar now. I got one for my mom too, because her hands get so cracked in winter.
Quick Questions I Get Asked
Is beef tallow good for your face? Yeah, I think so. It sounds wild, but it makes sense when you read about it. Our skin produces sebum to protect itself, and tallow from grass-fed animals is really similar to that. So it absorbs deeply and helps repair your skin barrier instead of just coating it. It’s one of those old-school remedies that’s coming back for a reason.
Does tallow balm clog pores? I was worried about that too. But no, not for me. And I can get clogged pores pretty easy. Because it’s so similar to our own oils and it absorbs well, it doesn’t just sit there and block things up. It’s non-comedogenic. My skin actually feels clearer since using it, probably because it’s properly hydrated and not over-producing oil to compensate.
What does the pear tallow balm smell like? It’s nice. Really light. It’s not a candy pear smell. It’s more like a fresh, ripe pear with the sweetness turned way down. Sophisticated, I guess? It’s fruity and hydrating smelling without being fake. It’s gentle. Fades pretty quick after you put it on. I like it.
So yeah. That’s the story of the little jar on my sink. If your skin is being difficult with the cold, or just sensitive in general, figuring out how to use tallow balm might be worth a shot. I didn’t think it would be for me, but now I’m kinda hooked. My skin’s happy, I’m happy. That’s all I wanted. Anyway, I’m probably gonna order another one soon.
