Why Representation in Beauty Still Matters: A Black Makeup Artist’s Story

From childhood inspiration to industry transformation, here’s what shaped my artistry, and why I’m still showing up.

I was around 7 years old the first time I felt the spark. I was sitting in a seat, watching The Lion King on Broadway. I don’t remember the full storyline as much as I remember the transformation. The makeup wasn’t just paint. It was a key part of the story. It turned people into animals, characters, emotion. I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but I knew it was powerful. I knew I was really intrigued by that.

Growing up in the 90s, I saw glimmers of myself in the beauty world. There were ads, covers, and campaigns that celebrated dark skin, that held space for brown girls with texture, depth, and richness. That kind of visibility planted a seed. I thought, maybe this is for me too.

But as the 2000s rolled in, that visibility started to fade. Slowly, then all at once. The beauty standards shifted. Lighter skin, looser curls, Eurocentric features were prioritized and suddenly, everything around me was saying, this is what’s desirable now.

And being a natural, brown-skinned, curly-haired girl? That didn’t fit the narrative anymore. It became harder to find reflections of myself in magazines or on shelves. CoverGirl and MAC were pretty much the only brands where I saw Black models in mainstream campaigns. Everyone else? Beige walls. Aisles of foundation shades that stopped before they even fully got to a strong mid tone.

I internalized all of that. Like a lot of us did. And even though I loved makeup, I didn’t feel like makeup was made for me. Not really. That’s where my deep interest and relationship with beauty began… in the tension between fascination and erasure. And that tension is what shaped my artistry.

I didn’t get into makeup because I saw myself reflected.

I got into makeup because I didn’t.

The people around me who were doing makeup were white. And while they may have been talented or kind, I didn’t feel safe to learn from them. No one around me knew how to match my undertones, how to work with my features, or even how to speak about Black beauty without making it sound like an exception or even an experiment. That confused me as an inquisitive middle schooler.

I was the outlier. And that meant no one really knew how to teach me, and honestly, most didn’t try. So I learned by watching. Studying. Practicing on myself. I didn’t have mentors who looked like me, so I became my own. Over time, what started as necessity became love. When I found my favorite looks and my version of glam, it finally felt like I didn’t have to perform or exaggerate or cover anything up. I just had to refine.

In the early 2010s, the beauty world was exploding.. not with innovation, but with accessibility. Drugstore makeup was having a moment. YouTube was the new classroom, and I was hooked.

I’d use my allowance to buy everything I could get my hands on from Covergirl, to Wet n Wild, NYX, Black Radiance, LA Girl. Then I’d go home, sit in front of my mirror, and study YouTube tutorials like they were gospel.

Jackie Aina was my beauty guru. A chocolate woman from Africa, working on celebrity faces and Housewives cast members? It felt like everything I loved in one person. She didn’t just teach technique, she gave language to the frustration so many Black girls were feeling. The lack of shades. The lazy launches. The silence from brands who didn’t care to include us until they were called out. Jackie wasn’t just doing makeup, she was holding the industry accountable. And is still doing so, to this day.

That era shaped me. Morphe and Makeup Revolution were my first Ulta loves. Even as I look back with a critical eye at how the industry functioned, I can’t deny what those products gave me: a way in. A place to play.

When I launched my business in 2012, it was on the foundation of those years. It was all about study, obsession, trial and error. I wasn’t just learning how to do makeup. I was learning how to see myself as an artist in a world that didn’t necessarily prioritize people that looked like me.

And the media around me mattered, too.

For all its flaws, America’s Next Top Model gave us representation in a way that felt groundbreaking at the time. Dark-skinned Black women with full lips and natural hair were being styled, photographed, and judged alongside household names. It was far from perfect, but it was a window.

I was obsessed with Kelly Rowland. I saw myself in “Tony Childs” from Girlfriends. Gabrielle Union? In everything. These were the women who made me feel like my beauty wasn’t niche. There was something celebratory about it.

And then came social media’s reckoning.

Platforms gave power back to the people, especially to consumers and creators of color. When brands dropped shade ranges that ignored entire demographics, we spoke up. When the same five influencers were getting all the deals, we called it out. Social media started to really shift from just a place to post selfies,  it became a mirror and a microphone.

And from that noise, something real started to grow.

Brands like Fenty Beauty didn’t just show up, they redefined what showing up meant. That 40-shade launch wasn’t about numbers. It was about intention. It was about finally seeing dark skin on campaign posters, not just in the fine print.

Pat McGrath Labs felt like royalty in a bottle, because it was. The most legendary Black woman in beauty, finally building her own empire.

Danessa Myricks changed the game for artistry. Her textures, her tones, her everything. Then to be created by someone who understood the nuance of Black skin, not just tolerated it was epic.

Juvia’s Place, in particular, brought a boldness to the industry that we hadn’t seen before. The pigments, the packaging, the unapologetic celebration of African heritage. It was vibrant, rich, and designed with us in mind. Their palettes didn’t whisper; they announced that melanin was the focus. And the products performed. For so many of us, Juvia’s Place was the first time we felt like the art of makeup, the bold color trends, the pigment payout, truly saw our skin as a starting point, not a limitation.

UOMA Beauty gave us edge, color, attitude, with a sharp critique of the industry built right into their branding.

And we can’t forget the OGs. Black Radiance has been riding for us since the beginning, even when mainstream stores pushed them to the back shelf.

These weren’t just brands. They were proof that Black beauty was worthy of celebration, of luxury, of innovation, of being centered.

And the voices that helped pave that way?

Jackie Aina led the charge, using her platform not just to teach, but to demand better.

Alissa Ashley gave us honesty, artistry, and representation in every frame.

Nyma Tang built an entire series around calling out shade ranges, and did it with grace and precision.

But even in 2025, we’re still watching brands miss the mark. Still watching “diversity” mean one ambiguous beige model. Still seeing deeper complexions left out of marketing campaigns unless it’s Black History Month.

True inclusion isn’t a trend. It isn’t one launch or one post. It’s about who’s in the room when decisions are being made. It’s about whether you’re making products for people, or for PR.

I’ve been in this industry for over a decade now. I’ve worked hundreds of weddings. Built a team. Created systems. Grown a brand that reflects the kind of softness, care, and precision I needed when I was that teenage girl with her mirror and drugstore haul.

And more than anything, I’ve made sure that no woman, especially no Black woman, sits in my chair and questions if she belongs in the beauty conversation.

Because I know what that doubt feels like.

I’ve lived in it. I built this business to dismantle it with intention. I curated my kit with care. I made sure that when a client sat in my chair, especially any woman of color, I wanted to make sure she didn’t have to wonder if I could handle her skin tone, her texture, her beauty.

My approach to glam isn’t just a signature look for me, it’s a statement. It’s rooted in restraint, intention, balance. It says you don’t need to hide to be beautiful. You don’t need to add more to be worthy of attention. You just need to be seen.

Now, when I open my kit, it reflects years of intentionality. Foundations that stretch across undertones. Powders that don’t turn ashy. Blushes that show up on all skin without apology. Tools built for precision, not assumption.

And when I look at the industry, the parts of it that are still growing, still struggling, still gatekeeping… I don’t feel discouraged. I feel called.

Because I’m not just here to do makeup.

I’m here to make space.