Let’s be honest: this cream doesn’t win any awards in the aesthetics department. The packaging leans more apothecary than beauty influencer—it’s giving dermatologist’s desk, not vanity shelf. 

That said, it does give off a no-nonsense, “I mean business” vibe, which actually works when you learn what’s inside. Function over form, maybe?

Once opened, you’re greeted with a soft beige cream that’s rich but not heavy, sitting neatly in the tub like it was poured with intention. It’s thick enough to feel luxurious but doesn’t scream greasy. 

The scent? It’s… controversial. There’s an herbal, almost medicinal note—like a mash-up of fermented snail and grandmother’s cold cream. At first I cringed, but weirdly, I’ve grown to associate it with comfort and nighttime calm.

Texture-wise, she’s a smooth operator. A small amount spreads generously, and it doesn’t just sit on your skin like some rich creams do—it melts. 

There’s a bounce to the way it spreads, almost like a hybrid between a balm and a moisturizer. This is where the snail mucin shines: it leaves behind that silky film (the good kind) that locks in hydration without feeling suffocating. I used about a pea-sized amount per use, so a little goes a long way.

I’ve made it my go-to final step in my PM routine. After toner and serum, I warm it between my fingers and press it into my skin—cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, and especially along my smile lines and neck. It layers beautifully over actives and plays well with other products. 

Zero pilling, even after multiple steps. 

The feeling right after applying? Plump. Cushioned. Like your skin just took a deep breath.