Bourbon Vanilla Tallow Balm: Yeah, I Put Beef Fat on My Face

Okay. So. I bought this thing. A whipped tallow balm. Bourbon vanilla scent. It’s made from grass-fed beef tallow. I know. Beef fat. For your skin. It sounds like something you’d find in a frontier cabin, not on your bathroom shelf in 2024. My first thought was a hard no. A visceral, “absolutely not, what is wrong with people” kind of no. It was a Tuesday, I think. Raining that annoying, constant drizzle. My skin felt like old paper. Tight. Itchy. I’d tried the fancy stuff, the stuff in the shiny jars that cost more than my electric bill. My skin just laughed at it. Or cried. Red and annoyed. So I was scrolling, my phone propped against a cereal box, and I kept seeing this tallow skincare thing. Beef tallow balm. Bourbon vanilla. The algorithm had me. I was skeptical, obviously. But also desperate. And curious in that “this is either genius or deeply gross” way. So I clicked.

Anyway. It arrived. Small jar. Felt solid. I opened it. Smelled like… vanilla? But not candle vanilla. Deeper. Warmer. Like vanilla extract your grandma would have in the back of the cupboard, the good kind. Or maybe bourbon. I don’t know. I’m bad at scents. It was just… nice. Cozy. The texture was weird. Not bad weird. Thick. Like cold butter but softer. I poked it. I left it on the counter for a bit, stared at it while the microwave hummed. The whole idea felt medieval. But then I remembered my grandma. Not this specifically, but her whole thing about using what you have. Lard for pie crust, vinegar for cleaning, weird plants for tea. Maybe this was just… that. But for skin.

How I Ended Up Smearing Beef Tallow on My Face

Look. I did some reading. Not a deep dive, just a few articles while waiting for my coffee to brew. I needed to justify this to myself. Here’s the thing that made me pause: tallow, especially from grass-fed cows, is structurally really close to the oils our own skin makes. Our sebum. That’s the science-y bit, I guess. So the idea is your skin recognizes it. It’s not some alien, lab-made silicone. It’s a fat. Our bodies get fats. It absorbs. It doesn’t just sit on top like a greasy film, which is what I was terrified of. I have this memory of a sunscreen from 2007 that made me look like a glazed donut. This was not that.

Also, people have been using animal fats on skin forever. Forever forever. Across, like, every cold climate ever. For protection, for healing. It’s not a new, trendy “bio-hack.” It’s an old, boring, “this works so we use it” thing. That grandma wisdom. That practicality. That resonated with me more than any influencer’s “10-step routine for glass skin.” My routine was currently “splash with water and hope.” So. I washed my face. Dried it. Took the tiniest bit of this bourbon vanilla tallow balm. Rubbed it between my fingers to warm it up. It melted. Like, instantly. I braced for the slick.

And… it was fine. It went on. Sort of vanished. My skin drank it. It didn’t feel greasy. It felt… quiet. Calm. Like it had been thirsty and didn’t know it. The scent was just there, faint and warm, and then gone. I went to bed expecting to wake up a pizza. But I didn’t. My skin was just… normal. Not red. Not tight. Just skin. Huh.

What This Stuff Actually Does (Or What It Did For Me)

I kept using it. Not every night, but when my skin felt angry. Which, in winter, is always. That dry, indoor heat air. My knuckles were cracking. Little painful splits. I put the tallow balm on them. Thick. The next morning, they were softer. Not healed, but not screaming. After a few days, the cracks were gone. That was the first “oh, this actually works” moment. It wasn’t a miracle. It was just effective. It fixed a problem without fanfare.

Then I got a bit braver. Used it on my face more regularly. After showers. The weirdest part? My skin stopped over-producing oil. I always had this shiny T-zone by noon. With this, it just… balanced out. I guess if you give your skin the good fats it recognizes, it chills out and stops panicking. It makes sense when you say it like that. But in practice, it was just weirdly logical. I told my sister about it. She was horrified. “You put what on your face?” I sent her a link to the Etsy shop anyway. She hasn’t bought it yet. But she’s asking more questions.

The bourbon vanilla scent is the key, I think. For the mental part. If it smelled like, I don’t know, plain fat or herbs, it would feel more clinical. This smells like a bakery. Or a cozy blanket. It makes the whole experience feel indulgent, not medicinal. It’s a self-care thing, not a chore. You’re not “treating a condition.” You’re just putting on a nice-smelling balm that happens to be made of tallow. The cognitive dissonance fades after like, two uses.

My Skin Now? And Would I Do It Again?

So it’s been a few weeks. Maybe a month. I’m bad with time. My skin is just… better. Not perfect. I still get a spot. I still have lines. But the overall texture is smoother. The constant winter tightness is gone. My elbows aren’t sandpaper. It’s just a baseline level of “okay” that I didn’t have before. I don’t think about my skin as much. That’s the real win. It’s not a project anymore. It’s just my face.

I’m on my second jar. I got the bigger size this time. That’s the real review, right? Repurchasing. I didn’t have to think about it. When the first one was getting low, I just went back to the shop. It’s become a thing. Like my toothbrush. Not exciting, just necessary.

I sound like a convert. I guess I am. It’s just so simple. Grass-fed beef tallow, whipped into this balm, maybe some essential oils for scent. That’s it. No list of forty unpronounceable ingredients. No “active complex” or “peptide technology.” Just fat. It feels honest. And my skin, for whatever reason, agrees.

Quick Questions I Get Asked

Is beef tallow good for your face? Weirdly, yeah. For me it was. The science-y reason is it’s similar to our skin’s own oils, so it absorbs well and helps balance things out. It’s not for everyone, but if you have dry or sensitive skin, it can be a game-changer. It’s like giving your skin something it actually understands.

Does tallow balm clog pores? I was sure it would. But no, not for me. Because it’s so similar to our sebum, it seems to sink in instead of sitting on top and blocking pores. My skin actually got less clogged because it stopped over-producing oil. Always patch test though!

What does the bourbon vanilla tallow balm smell like? It’s warm. Like real vanilla, not fake sweet. Maybe a tiny bit like vanilla extract or the smell of a bakery when they’re making cookies. It’s comforting. The scent doesn’t stick around long, just while you’re putting it on. It’s nice.

Anyway. If your skin’s being difficult with the cold, or just feels off, maybe give tallow skincare a look. It sounds weird. It is weird. But sometimes the weird thing works. I got mine from this little Etsy shop that makes it in France. My skin’s happy. I’m happy. That’s all I wanted.