Rubbing Beef on my Face Won’t Get Rid of the Dark Circles

Nor won't nuffin' else, guv'nor.

Photo by Poko Skincare on Unsplash

When I told my husband that I had bought a face cream made of beef tallow, his reaction was one of incredulity.

“Why? You could have just bought tallow. It’d be cheaper, and just as stupid.” Or words to that effect.

The problem with that suggestion is that I am in fact a woman, and even the most sensible, frugal, practical among us must occasionally spend too much on some new nonsense product in order to create the beauty we have yet to see in the mirror.

I say, “new nonsense” – it may not be nonsense at all, and I am reliably informed by the product’s packaging (tin in carboard box with paper notes – très eco-chic) that this is an “ancestral” and “traditional” goop with which to slather one’s visage. Men may fantasise about the Roman Empire, but women rub beef dripping on their face. RETVRN, or something.

The truth is that I have never been a particularly frou-frou type of woman. Beauty trends reliably pass me by. I have had the same hairstyle since puberty, and my make-up bag is dragged, blinking, into the sunlight perhaps twice a year. However, every now and then I find myself dreaming of having Good Skin. As I stumble into my thirties, I am increasingly aware of the delightful combination of acne-scars, current break-outs, and embryonic wrinkles taking hold.

The irony, of course, is that I have mostly used this beautiful and meaty treatment (meatment? Marketers, you are most welcome) on my gorgeous but sleepless toddler son, the main reason for my above complaints to wither in the shadows of my ever-expanding dark circles. Where once lay pale, Celtic skin under two bright blue eyes, now lies only two bruises of purple exhaustion under a couple of bloodshot watchers. My beautiful, affectionate, dazzlingly intelligent son does not sleep. It follows, then, that I do not sleep.

He has always been a “bad” sleeper, but I realised recently that the calendar I use in part to track his sleep in a futile effort to spot useful patterns has been filled for the last four months at least with the following annotations: B (bad), VB (very bad), WTF (self-explanatory), and occasionally FR (full retard).  Bear in mind that a G (good) night would consist of a boy sleeping from 7pm-5am with perhaps three or fewer wake-ups under 30 minutes each. We’re not aiming for the stars, here. He also seems to have come down with a case of Sleep-phobia in the last week, which means that at any sign of a nap or bedtime, he becomes quite hysterical and determined to remain awake, even as he staggers about, yawning and crying with exhaustion, a bit like his mother. Last night he would not go to sleep until 10pm. He woke up six times before I handed over night-duty to his father shortly after 5am. The boy was up and about before 6am, running through the house like a Spring Spaniel puppy let into the garden after a long sojourn indoors.

I don’t know how he is functioning. I don’t know how I am. I barely am. And with the apparent loss (or attempted loss) of his remaining nap, I’m frankly becoming quite full of dread for the coming days. I remain, as ever, grateful for the joys of raising this lovely boy, and grateful even for the difficulties – I wouldn’t swap being his mother for the world. But Jesus wept, there’s not a face cream in the land that can make me look human again. On the plus side, the tallow has done wonders for the boy’s dry knees, and he enjoys rubbing it on himself. And me. And my clothes. And the chair. And the carpet. Everything smells slightly beefy.

I will say that I appreciate the simplicity of the cream, and it does feel lovely, if slightly greasy on my skin after application. There is something solidly reassuring about ditching all the long ingredients lists with dozens of long and convoluted words whose real meaning I have no idea, and just sticking to something as simple as “cow fat + jojoba fat”. The tin feels cool and simple in my hand, and I quickly got used to the slightly earthy scent. Whether or not my husband has, I wouldn’t like to ask. Thankfully, he is a man of the country. His wife smelling slightly of beef is unlikely to put him off as much as it is likely to make him hungry. Perhaps I will finally try to become that sensible woman who steers clear of false economy, who says things like, “I seldom buy anything, but when I do, it is good quality, simply made. I arrived here on a horse, and I am 5’8.” The last sentence would have to be a lie, of course, but a girl can dream.

Either way, the tallow is pleasing, and I’ve learned to accept the deep purple eye-bags. One day, he will sleep through the night. Or longer than two hours at a time, that would be fine. For now, I just have to keep dropping my standards where possible and keep plodding on.