Who needs vaccines and Vanicream, when you have raw milk and beef tallow? That’s what the internet thinks, anyway. TikTok (or TallowTok) is currently slathered with devotees hailing beef tallow (yes, the rendered fat from a cow) as a miracle moisturizer. As of March 2025, there have been more than 68.5 million posts on tallow. Brands cash in, while influencers flaunt before-and-after transformations, render tallow from suet, or smear beef lard on their skin, thinking it’s tallow (it’s not).

The backlash against industrialized beauty mirrors anxieties about ultra-processed food. The same people avoiding seed oils in their diets are now seeking beef-fat balms for their faces—it’s not a coincidence that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is selling “Making Frying Oil Tallow Again” merch. But in a rush to eliminate toxins and stick it to big corporations, you may have overlooked other risks. I bought some on the internet and smeared it on myself to figure it out.

A Brief History of Tallow

Cow fat as face cream is not as far out as you might think. For centuries, terrestrial animal fats—beef tallow, lard, and lanolin—were staples in skin care. The Babylonians used ash and rendered fat to craft soap. Over time, tallow found its way into early-candle-making and medicinal remedies. Nineteenth-century ointments relied on them to treat everything from burns and chapped skin to wounds and ingrown nails. Traditional soap was a mix of tallow and coconut oil, and early lipsticks blended animal fat and beeswax. Some tattoo artists will still recommend beef tallow soaps to better preserve ink.

By the 1990s, advances in cosmetic chemistry favored plant-based and synthetic alternatives that offered greater stability and consistency. Safety concerns surrounding bovine spongiform encephalopathy (mad cow disease) also prompted companies to distance themselves from animal-derived ingredients. Though byproducts like collagen, hyaluronic acid, and keratin evolved with modern skin care, tallow was (mostly) left behind.

But now, beef tallow is back.

This revival is part of a cultural obsession with ancestral living. It’s the same impulse driving the popularity of the carnivore diet, bone broth, and unpasteurized milk. Grand View Research reports that the U.S. tallow market brought in $627.9 million in 2023 and is projected to surpass $1 billion by 2030. At its core is the rejection of modernity, the belief that industrialization has corrupted nature and that the past held purer solutions. The beauty industry, with its preservatives, emulsifiers, and laboratory formulations, has become the enemy. Tallow, by contrast, is framed as a return to the untainted.

Beef tallow is rich in triglycerides and also contains essential vitamins A, D, K, E, and B12. Some studies suggest that tallow can increase fatty acid concentration in the skin, making it a moisturizing agent. However, comparative studies have found that alternatives like pumpkin seed oil and linoleic acid offer superior hydration. While some might tout its “natural” benefits, that word is more marketing than fact.

Retailers like Sephora, Ulta Beauty, and Whole Foods have their own “clean” beauty standards, each with different ingredient bans. The FDA doesn’t approve cosmetics before they hit the market, meaning labels like “clean” and “toxin-free” are pretty much meaningless.

Face Full of Meat

I’m not scared of beef tallow. I’ve willingly slathered snail mucin on my skin (and I still do). But I did take a few steps after ordering a jar of this ancient beauty remedy via Amazon Prime. (Side note: This product is no longer available on Amazon or the company’s site, which is concerning.) For example, I decided to use it only at night, reasoning that the last thing I needed was to smell like meat sweats during my morning workout.

My immediate reaction was yuck. It looked like curdled cheese but, surprisingly, didn’t smell like much. I applied it quickly and went straight to bed before I could dwell on the fact that I had basted myself. To my surprise, I woke each morning to skin that felt soft and hydrated. My seasonal seborrheic dermatitis didn’t flare up as much, but I also broke out more than usual.

Nothing really bad happened to me in the week that I tried it (except that I grossed out my partner and myself), but I may have gotten lucky. There have been a few recalls on commercially produced tallow, and DIY tallow skin care, in particular, raises red flags.

Rendering animal fat requires careful heating and purification to remove impurities. Without proper sterilization, bacterial contamination is a serious concern. Plus, tallow’s composition varies depending on the animal’s diet and processing method, making it almost impossible to predict how an individual’s skin will react. More research is needed to understand how different skin types respond to tallow, as existing studies use varied methodologies and reference points.

While tallow does have moisturizing properties, its occlusive nature isn’t ideal for all skin types, especially oily or acne-prone individuals. Animal fats are rich in saturated fatty acids, which can be comedogenic and exacerbate breakouts for certain skin types. Tallow can also trigger dermatitis or allergic reactions in sensitive individuals.

In the end, beef tallow’s resurgence isn’t really about skin care—it’s about trust, control, and the desire to strip away the complexities of consumerism. It’s easy to romanticize the past when you don’t have to live in it. But just because something is natural doesn’t mean it’s better. After all, we don’t put lead in makeup anymore. If you’re still tempted to smear cow fat on your face, consult a dermatologist before overhauling your skin care routine.