Working in Beauty, Feeling Ugly

A young Black makeup artist learns the hard way the possibilities are one type of beautiful 

Dark skin, a shaved head and eyebrows, wearing dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner while working at a national makeup chain invited many "well-meaning" comments.  images courtesy of the author 

Living most of my life in northwest Pennsylvania means often finding myself one of very few people of color in any room and the social exhaustion that comes with that. The invasive questions, fascination with my hair and affect? All of that I’m prepared for. What I wasn’t prepared for was the ways working at a makeup store would intensify these interactions. In a space curated for women, I was still singled out because it wasn’t necessarily curated for women like me. As much as the greater industry appears to change, beauty in a conservative region is still not accommodating to people of color, queer people, or alternative people, whether patron or employee.  

The through line of patrons crossing boundaries was established early, but the impact was muffled at first by the community I’d found. 

There’s an increased visibility in daily life when a person looks different. You’re watched, observed like a specimen, and the same happens in retail environments. The beauty space, where close inspection and commentary on the employees’ looks are invited, is heightened. So as a Black girl with a shaved head and eyebrows, wearing dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner, I stuck out like a sore thumb. It took a while to figure out why I felt so uneasy working in the industry. I’m knowledgeable and polite enough to be well liked.  Then I realized how many times my skin tone was brought up and how often customers avoided me.  

When they did engage, most of the conversations weren’t always meant to be rude.  But the comments made with “good intentions” jarred me the most.  

“My skin isn’t like yours …” 

 “Well, I could never wear my hair and makeup like that …”  

aren’t the compliments some seem to think they are.  

The through line of patrons crossing boundaries was established early, but the impact was muffled at first by the community I’d found. While I was there, I got to teach teenagers how to get started in makeup, answer questions people had for years and help so many Black women find the foundation match they needed. I was trusted by people who are often marginalized to treat them with kindness and provide information in an intimidating space, and I accomplished that. Those moments made my day without fail. Most of this responsibility fell to me due to the majority white staff. I wasn’t the only Black employee, but between varying roles and rarely overlapping schedules, I was often the only one available. A lot of customers beelined to me when they entered, figuring I’d be their best shot at getting help. And they were right, I usually had the answer, but I was often the only one present who did. When I addressed the patron’s need for a more reliable collective, I was effectively ignored. 

A few months in, the volume of customers coming in needing help from me, specifically, was becoming untenable. They confessed most of them had tried to work with my peers and been unsuccessful. Their questions weren’t complicated, they just required an understanding of darker skin tones and/or Black makeup trends, which most of my counterparts didn’t have.  I  raised this issue  as we approached the busy season.  Management didn’t take it seriously. Some colleagues engaged with me about it and accepted the help I offered to provide. 

Like most businesses recently, the store was understaffed, so not only was I doing more actual labor than was feasible, I was also doing emotional labor with no real way to mitigate it. I spent the days mostly alone in my section, speaking to older white women, feeling objectified and othered the whole way, and it was wearing on me.   

The final incident: a customer touched my buzzed head. She asked first but wasn’t truly interested in the answer. Both her friend and I told her “no,” but her hand was on me before either of us could finish. I spent high school  fending off unwanted hands in my hair, but it hadn’t happened since. In seconds, this stranger transported me to the discomfort of my childhood, violated me in a way I’d become unused to, and I was deeply shaken. I barely reacted in the moment, did my best to end the conversation quickly, then went home that night and cried. Haunted by not only this interaction but the multitude of inappropriate comments over the months, I realized I’d never been as safe there as I hoped to be and knew I couldn’t do it anymore. I quit about a week later.  

Post body-positivity movement, the makeup industry has rebranded from a solution for the ways one doesn’t fit the mold to a celebration of that. But the message hasn’t fully reached consumers yet. The beauty industry is heralded by brands and companies as a space for all, but working in it certainly failed to make me feel beautiful.