New York, NY – Beauty products are big business, especially “skin care.” Every year, billions are spent trying to recreate the glow of youth, now marketed as “healthy,” “clean,” and “natural.” Consumers are encouraged to avoid lab-formulated ingredients such as hyaluronic acid, retinoids, glycolic acid, crude oil, paint thinner, spackle, and Flex Seal.
As marketing ramped up to soothe anxious shoppers whose wrinkles were begging to be plumped, high-end brands rolled out “natural panaceas.”
Sheep placenta—including “Mary’s Little Lamb”—had its moment. Then companies researched niche markets and added grapeseed for wine drinkers. Soon, French, Swedish, and Finnish brands were offering Tadpole Face Rejuvenator, Elk Sweat Gland Wrinkle Erase, and Feline Hairball Restorative Gel. Whether dissected, extracted, or coughed up onto a carpet, nothing gave consumers the glowing results they wanted.
Well, except for Swedish Duchess Lydia Fish of Flugelhoffer, who says that after four weeks of Hairball Restorative Gel, she lost 25 pounds eating Meow Mix.
Now the newest skincare obsession is tallow. Yes—rubbing farm animals on your face is in. If you’ve missed the memo, tallow is rendered animal fat. As in, “Grandma used this to fry potatoes during the Depression.”
Influencers call it “ancestral,” which is technically true, because our ancestors used tallow—mostly when they didn’t have anything else. There wasn’t a Sephora in the 1500s. Fat was abundant and always just one cow away.
Videos on TikTok now demonstrate the art of applying a lump of fat to your face. One scoop, and it melts across your cheeks like a pioneer’s candle. It glides across the skin like a dollop on a cast-iron skillet about to meet a ribeye. Vegans might refuse to ingest animal products, but they apparently have no hesitation slathering cow fat across their pores.
Meanwhile, marketers are scrambling to avoid the F-word and give products chic names:
• “Grass-fed moisture concentrate” (Fat)
• “Bovine-based balm” (Still Fat)
• “Nutrient-dense ancestral salve” (Fancy Fat)
• “Tallow buttercream whipped with passion and lavender” (Fat Over $50)
Influencers swear it cures everything. Warts? Tallow. Rash? Tallow. Laugh lines? Tallow. Agoraphobia? Also tallow.
Critics warn it can clog pores for acne-prone users, so the industry is promising a reduced-fat version harvested from skinny cows. Some companies even guarantee the fat comes from grass-fed, stress-free cows that died peacefully while listening to smooth jazz.
Men are now joining the fat frenzy, too. Nothing says rugged masculinity like leaning into the bathroom mirror and daintily patting your face with the same substance McDonald’s once used to cook fries.
Skincare companies insist tallow doesn’t smell like a butcher shop, though many first-time users say packs of drooling dogs wearing bibs have followed them. Angie Adipose of Butterfield, MN, reviewed the Fat & Fabulous brand, reporting that her labradoodle won’t stop licking her face. “Twice, Snuggles tried to drag me into the backyard and bury me,” she wrote.
So what’s driving this craze? Nothing says modern luxury like paying boutique prices for something a pioneer woman once stored in a tin next to her rifle. Kudos to marketers who can sell a product that smells like a Sunday pot roast and makes your face shine like a glazed ham. Just don’t get offended if someone calls you a piece of meat.
Maybe trends don’t have logic. Maybe they just scratch a particular itch for a particular demographic at a particular moment. In these anxious times, people crave nostalgia—old things in shiny new packaging. Something as ancient as Cleopatra and as trendy as Labubu.
If you’re thinking of trying tallow skincare, just remember: it’s not magic. It’s not cutting-edge. It’s not a spiritual awakening for your epidermis. It’s cow fat. Prepare yourself for the raccoons who will stare through your window at night, licking their lips.
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