Commemorating UK Black History Month can feel futile when the country’s attention is elsewhere. Doing it this month, under this Government, in what has become one of the most tumultuous political, social and economic periods since, well, our last Prime Minister departed, hasn’t ‘t been much easier, either.
It’s not that we’ve had a shortage of things to talk about: this month alone, we’ve found out more about our historic ties to ancient Britain, we’ve had vital reminders about the importance of diversifying the curriculum, groundbreaking history trails have popped up in Bristol and beyond and TV has offered some impressive programming this year too.
But celebrating has always felt like a bit of an uphill battle, mainly because – like so many other aspects of our lives – black history can be treated as an afterthought. Within that, one aspect I feel we still know too little about, futile as it may sound to some in the grand scheme of things, is the history of black British make-up.
The annals of cosmetics history have never dedicated much time to black beauty. I’ve always known this but researching the topic recently has reaffirmed it for me. Despite having established larger communities in the UK for centuries, when looking into even 20th-century cosmetics in Britain, mention of what was available to – and practices among – black women are scarce.
There’s information about what birthed blackface in Britain, intricate details of the birth of cosmetics in a more general sense, but nothing that gives you a real understanding of how far we’ve truly come since arriving here in greater numbers.
As Montaz Marché, a PhD researcher, wrote for University College London on black women’s experiences in 18th and 19th century Britain: “The reason why black women are so undetectable in the archives is precisely because they desired it to be so. Black women, as social chameleons, uniquely adopted the desired characteristics of British cultural civility, thus becoming undistinguishable from their neighbours and successfully assimilating into communities in Britain, their home.” As her research showed, “Black women assimilated rather than integrated because integration implies an acceptance of black cultural practices in the British community, which did not largely occur.”
When looking at the measures these women would have had to take in order to assimilate, one of the first things that comes to mind is how they felt they had to present themselves. White women during this period were both revered and maligned for using cosmetics, then homemade and often taken from “cosmetic recipes”, typically to make white skin appear lighter or more luminous. In some countries, such as early 20th century South Africa, blush, white powder makeup and lipstick were in use by white women and, initially , by poorer black women. Just as some aspects of white women’s makeup use have historically drawn sexist criticism in Britain (and likely South Africa too), black women faced similar backlash.
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A snapshot of that sentiment can be seen in historical research. Not long after its launch, Bantu Worlda black 1930s South African newspaper, featured a campaign from Rolfes Robert Reginald Dhlomo, a successful black writer during that time, “against white powder and, to a lesser extent, red lipstick” on black women. Lynn M Thomas, Professor of History at the University of Washington wrote that while “Dhlomo was a strong proponent of women’s ‘advancement’” and “celebrated black women’s educational and professional achievements […] when it came to black women wearing make-up” he saw “nothing redeemable”, drawing support from a number of black men who felt the same way.
The use of visible cosmetics among women of all races – including black women – was similarly criticised by men in 19th century America, largely because of its role not just in beautifying some women, or encouraging more self-indulgent behaviour, but also because, as Elsewhere, it was considered somewhat of a threat to social norms around gender, allowing women – and other genders, in many cases – to shape their own desirability (hence make-up’s global and historical association with prostitution). I wish, desperately, that I knew more about how black British women have fit into these narratives over the centuries. How did they navigate and circumvent these beauty standards? And do any of those practices still exist today?
We, of course, know a lot more about late 20th-century makeup and black women’s beauty practices since then. Brands like Fashion Fair, a US import, have long been responsible for giving black British women access to the kind of products that were typically reserved for lighter shades. Brands like Mac have also been staples among black women – or indeed any black person seeking better-fitting shades of foundation, lipstick and more. But what preceded them? When Anthony Overton’s “high brown” face powder for black women arrived in America in the early 1900s, what was available to black women in the UK? Yes, there may have been fewer of them – but did they experience a similar boom in products comparable to the recent explosion of inclusive makeup we see today?
This is the point of Black History Month, I suppose. To push for answers to these yet-to-be uncovered mysteries. To show how impactful knowledge can be, even, no, especially, when it concerns appearance and identity. It’s something I ‘ve grown more curious about in recent years. The novelty of having products freely available to people like me has not yet passed me by. Remember, we’re barely a few years out from the mainstream groundswell of affordable multi-shade products, with Fenty Beauty spearheading the push for expansive, authentically inclusive product lines in 2017, and other brands having no choice but to follow suit – in a real way. As serving everyone in beauty increasingly becomes the new standard, I hope that by next Black History Month , I know much more about how this progress relates to where we’ve already been.