On paper, it sounds like a win: a cult-favorite niche brand entering a mass-prestige retailer, becoming easier to sample, easier to buy, easier to recommend. But the bigger question is what it signals for niche, standalone brands as a category.

To me, it feels like another marker in the end of aspirational beauty—the slow shift from I discovered this to everyone can grab it on a casual run for concealer.

Does Byredo belong in Sephora

This is subjective, but my bottom-line answer is no.

Not because Sephora shouldn’t carry elevated fragrance. It should. Sephora’s fragrance selection absolutely deserves an overhaul. It’s just that Byredo isn’t the brand that fixes the problem—especially at this price point.

That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Sephora’s day-to-day customer is used to splurges, yes, but within a certain range. Byredo doesn’t really live in that range anymore. Maybe that’s why they’re limiting the launch to 24 stores. It’s a toe-dip strategy, not a full-on moment.

The price point moved, and so did the meaning

Ten years ago, when I discovered Byredo during my Glossier days (and when I was a feral junkie for Bal d’Afrique—still am), a 50 mL bottle was around $150–$160.

Now that same 50 mL is $235.

Back then, the math of the purchase mattered. I remember saving up for the “nice” things that weren’t on the commercial market. Tom Ford Beauty was one of the first luxury brands I saved for—because ten-plus years ago, a $60–$70 lipstick was a big deal. It put a dent in my wallet. And I cherished it. I wore it like an achievement.

Byredo felt similar. When I finally bought my first bottle on my Glossier salary, I was proud—not just because I liked the scent, but because it symbolized a new kind of adulthood. I had a paycheck that could afford me something that felt exclusive, fresh, not what everyone else was wearing. The product was the perfume, sure, but the feeling was part of what I was buying.

And that’s why this Sephora news lands the way it does.

If everything is “for everyone,” what’s left of niche

When everything is inclusive, nothing is inclusive.

When everything is accessible, nothing feels accessible.

That sounds contradictory, but it’s the emotional truth of aspirational beauty. We chase the story of discovery, taste, and rarity. We chase the sense that we found something slightly outside the algorithm. When the same brands show up everywhere, culture starts to flatten. Not because the product gets worse overnight—but because the context changes.

Byredo at Sephora reads like homogenization. It’s a sign that niche isn’t protected from the same market forces that swallowed fashion, music, and media. The middle gets squeezed, the edges get monetized, and exclusivity becomes a marketing line instead of an ecosystem.

And yes, I get it. Brands want growth. Sephora wants credibility. Consumers want convenience. But something gets lost when the entire industry is built to remove friction from desire.

One last thing

If we’re going to talk about priorities, can my people keep the Byredo body mists—especially Bal d’Afrique—in stock at Byredo locations.

Focus, y’all. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.

I walked in with a humble goal of $200. I walked out with gratitude, a full heart, and a number I still can’t stop repeating: $735. People showed up. People donated. People stayed to talk, to browse, to laugh, to learn more about the products and their benefits. It felt like community the way people say they want it to feel — tangible, generous, easy.

But as the day went on, another kind of truth kept surfacing, one I wasn’t expecting to be so loud.

As a beauty aficionado, I assumed the “special” stuff would be the first to go — the prestige names, the luxury textures, the kind of products that feel like a treat because they are. We had those on the table: Augustinus Bader, Nécessaire, Byredo, Tom Ford Beauty. The fantasy lineup.

And yet, what people reached for most — without hesitation — were the brands that live closer to everyday life. The more commercial, easy-to-find names. The kinds of products you can replace at a drugstore, or restock through Sephora and Ulta.

It wasn’t that people don’t like luxury. It’s that luxury now comes with an extra step: justification.

Because here’s the thing I couldn’t ignore. Outside of traditional consumer brands, almost nothing on that table was under $50. That number matters. You could see it in the way people picked things up, asked the price, and then recalibrated — not with shame, not with apology, just with realism. The realism of budgets. The realism of rent. The realism of the last few years. The realism of being generous at a fundraiser and still needing your money to stretch on Monday.

So I did what any beauty person does when they believe in a product. I started selling. I explained. I hyped. I tried to make the case for why something higher-priced was worth it, why it performed, why it was special.

And still, the products that moved fastest told their own story.

EADEM. Glossier. Topicals. Sofie Pavitt. Pattern Beauty. Merit.

Not “cheap,” exactly — but accessible in spirit. Brands that feel like they understand what beauty is for right now: not performance art, not status, not a flex. Maintenance. Care. Solutions. Pleasure that doesn’t require financial acrobatics.

If there’s a bigger picture here, it’s this: indie still reigns — but only the indie that resonates with people’s lived experience. People aren’t abandoning taste. They’re refining it. They’re picking what feels useful, trustworthy, and aligned with the reality they wake up in.

And maybe that’s the most meaningful part of the whole day. We didn’t just raise more money than we expected — we got a live read on where beauty is headed.

The future isn’t who can be the most expensive. It’s who can be the most real.

This debate is layered because two things can be true at once. Dress codes have historically been used to control Black bodies, and HBCU standards have also functioned as community norms—a way of building identity, professionalism, and mutual accountability in spaces Black people created for ourselves.

Tuskegee, Booker T. Washington, and the “training of character”

Tuskegee is not just any campus—its public identity has always been tied to the philosophy of Booker T. Washington. In Chapter XI of Up From Slavery, Washington describes how Tuskegee treated cleanliness, grooming, and proper dress as part of education itself—not an add-on. His framing was that personal presentation and hygiene were intertwined with character-building and survival during Reconstruction and Jim Crow.

That history matters because Tuskegee’s current policy doesn’t come out of nowhere. It echoes an institutional tradition that has long linked appearance and grooming to discipline and responsibility, and to the idea of representing something larger than yourself. To be clear: naming that tradition doesn’t mean everyone has to agree with it. It means we should be honest about the lineage of the argument.

HBCUs as sacred ground and the internal gaze

One piece missing from a lot of the discourse is that HBCUs don’t primarily operate under the white gaze—they operate under an internal community gaze.

@stixxinthecityI come from a different era of HBCU culture, but back in my days, we literally could NOT show up with house/loungewear on. It literally had nothing to do with adhering to “whitness” either — HBCU folx have ALWAYS + will always be the standard. #hbcu #tuskegee #blacktiktok #howarduniversity #fyp

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That sounds harsh until you remember what the “yard” is for many of us: a sanctuary from racial hostility, a training ground, and a living legacy. On many campuses (especially in the South), students were corrected quickly—by staff, professors, and upperclassmen—not because they wanted to impress outsiders, but because they believed the space deserved reverence. The message was simple: you don’t bring anything onto this campus that communicates you don’t value yourself or this institution.

That’s the difference between “we’re trying to be accepted by them” and “we’re holding ourselves to our own standards.”

The church layer people keep skipping AME and CME influence in the South

Another layer that deepens this conversation is the role of Black churches in founding and sustaining many HBCUs—especially across the Deep South.

A significant number of HBCUs were established or supported by Black denominations and church networks, including the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church and the Christian Methodist Episcopal (CME) Church. Why does that matter here? Because church culture has historically emphasized “Sunday best” as a practice of dignity, grooming and presentation as a form of self-respect, and communal accountability (what some people would call “being raised”).

So when some HBCU communities respond to bonnets and durags with “not on this campus,” they may be drawing from a moral and cultural inheritance—one shaped by faith institutions, respect for elders, and the belief that excellence is a daily practice.

Again, you can critique the policy and still understand the cultural logic behind it.

What my mother said:

After I talked with my mother—an HBCU graduate of LeMoyne-Owen College—she said something that stopped me in my tracks:

We raised other people’s children to look and dress well, why wouldn’t we expect the same of our children especially on our HBCU campuses

My girl truly cleared the set!

Bonnet and durag aren’t the whole point it’s about standards and symbolism

Kepping it a hundun, a bonnet or durag can be practical, protective, and culturally normal. But on many HBCU campuses, the question isn’t “is this harmful?” The question is “what does this signal in this place?”

Dress codes are always about symbolism. They’re about who we believe we are, what we think this space represents, and what we are training ourselves to do when nobody is watching. And that’s why the argument gets emotional—because both sides are arguing about identity, not fabric.

@stixxinthecityi’m very sensitive about telling my business on the internet, but i do know that perspective matters. i’m so grateful for my family and the sacrifices they made for me + how my HBCU brothers/family showed up for me + how we show up for each other! i’m telling y’all, this conversation is much bigger and greater than the letters and phrases y’all are putting on it. ps: i’m sorry for crying y’all! 😭😭 #hbcu #tuskegee #blacktiktok #fashion #fyp

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A few books that support the history behind this conversation

If you want to ground this debate in scholarship and primary sources, these are strong places to start.

Primary source

Booker T. Washington, Up From Slavery (especially his discussion of Tuskegee’s standards, discipline, and character formation).

HBCUs, institutional life, and student culture

Marybeth Gasman (ed.), Understanding Minority-Serving Institutions (useful for the broader role of MSIs and HBCUs). Marybeth Gasman, Envisioning Black Colleges (on HBCU history and purpose). Eddie S. Glaude Jr., In a Shade of Blue (for Black institutional culture, leadership, and moral formation—helpful parallels even beyond HBCUs).

Respectability politics and Black public life (for engaging the critique fairly)

Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham, Righteous Discontent (foundational work on Black women’s activism and respectability politics). Brittney Cooper, Eloquent Rage (sharp analysis of Black respectability, policing, and why these debates recur). Michele Wallace, Black Macho and the Myth of the Superwoman (for how norms get gendered and enforced).

Black churches and the cultural DNA of Southern Black institutions

C. Eric Lincoln and Lawrence H. Mamiya, The Black Church in the African American Experience (big-picture framework for how church life shaped Black communities and institutions).

Where I land

If you’re reading this and you disagree, I’m not asking you to abandon your critique. I’m asking you to widen it.

Because when an HBCU community defends standards, it is not always submission to whiteness. Sometimes it is a declaration of self-definition.

And maybe that’s the heart of it. Some people hear a dress code and think “control.” Others hear it and think “we built this place to make us excellent, and we’re going to protect that.”

Both interpretations deserve serious, historically grounded discussion—especially when we’re talking about institutions that have carried Black dreams through generations.

The idea started with my friend . She recently put together a beauty bake sale to raise money for charity, and it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It was creative, joyful, and generous all at once—proof that when you mix beauty with purpose, people really show up. I left feeling inspired, and honestly, a little challenged in the best way: what would it look like to do something like that for Boy Beat?

So here it is. In honor of New York’s Black Gay Pride Month, I’m putting together a Boy Beat community sale that raises money for The Ali Forney Center, an organization that provides care and support for Black and Brown LGBTQ+ youth—an incredibly underserved community that deserves resources, protection, and love wrapped around them.

Here’s what we want to achieve:

We have a small initial goal of raising at least $100, which will provide 40 meals for youth in AF's care.

If we raise $250, that will help shelter (1) client for a week.

If we raise $500, that will help AF provide outreach services for a full week.

Even if you aren’t local,. but just want to give, any number counts and will be going towards a great cause.

On Saturday, August 1, I’ll be posted up at Loveless Cafe in Bushwick with all the goods. For a $15 donation, you’ll get Boy Beat treats while we raise funds for at-risk youth and support a local business at the same time.

And yes, I want you to come have a coffee with me.

What makes this extra special is that it’s not just an event—it’s a beginning. Boy Beat has always been about looking good, feeling good, and moving through the world with intention. But this moment is a reminder that beauty goes beyond the surface. It’s in how we show up. It’s in what we choose to build. It’s in who we choose to support when no one’s watching.

If you’ve been rocking with Boy Beat, I’d love to see you there. If you’re new, this is the perfect time to pull up. Either way, come through to Loveless, grab something sweet, and help us do something that actually matters.

See you in Bushwick.

Many of us grew up learning that love between men had to be guarded, rationed, disguised. As Black men, we are conditioned and socialized to avoid showing one another affection in any way that might be labeled “gay,” as if tenderness itself is something to be ashamed of. That policing doesn’t only come from outside our communities; it can be taught inside our families, reinforced in schools, echoed in music and media, and passed along through the everyday rules of masculinity.

bell hooks speaks directly to this in The Will to Change. She argues that patriarchal conditioning deprives Black men of emotional expression, often replacing deep, vulnerable friendship with toxic competition and isolation. In her view, healing and community building require rejecting these oppressive norms—choosing instead to foster authentic, loving connections. It’s a radical idea only because we have been taught that emotional honesty is dangerous, and that intimacy between men must be defended against, not nurtured.

@stixxinthecityone of the best things i’ve ever done was pick up the works of bell hooks! my heart is so full. ✨❤️ #booktok #bellhooks #reading #blacktiktok #author

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But those of us who have lived and loved as Black queer men know something else to be true. Our relationships—our friendships, our chosen family, our brotherhood—do not flourish without love. Not the abstract kind. The practiced kind. The kind you can feel in how someone checks on you, how they hold you accountable, how they show up when it matters, how they tell you the truth with care.

For most of my queer life, I have been blessed to be surrounded by same-sex loving men who strengthened my will to love and to show love. Being in community with them has expanded what I believed was possible. They have taught me that tenderness is not weakness—it is skill. It is discipline. It is devotion.

One of my dearest friends—someone I’ve known since childhood—has been one of my driving forces in this learning. We have always loved one another, even when we didn’t have the language or the comfort to show it freely. For years, it felt unnatural for us to be “touchy-feely” with each other. None of our close friends were particularly touchy either, and we carried this unspoken rule of keeping the affection subtle.

But over the last few years, as we started spending more time together, something shifted. We changed. We softened. We grew less interested in what love might look like to outsiders and more committed to what it feels like for us. Now we embrace more intimately and lovingly, and it fills my heart with joy that lasts until the next time I see him. That kind of joy is not small—it’s medicine. It is proof that we can unlearn what we were taught.

The queer relationships I have built have stood the test of time, and in the last few years I’ve been deeply committed to carving out time and space for them. I travel to see my people—wherever they are in these United States—because closeness is not an accident. Community does not maintain itself on nostalgia. Friendship, like any love, needs intention.

Summer is often the only time I can truly pause and be present, and I try to show up in the ways my friends need me. Sometimes that means planning trips. Sometimes it means long dinners and late-night talks. Sometimes it means sitting together in silence and letting that be enough.

As we get older, these relationships matter to me above almost everything else. They hold my history. They witness my becoming. They sharpen my integrity and soften my edges.

Because I have such a loving community of Black queer men, their love has made me a better friend, a better brother, a better lover, and a better Black man.

I recently celebrated my birthday, Juneteenth and Pride Month all in one short month. Between those happenings and just trying to enjoy the warmer days, there hasn’t been much time to write. I also don’t subscribe to putting things out on a rolling basis. When I post a Substack, it’s because I have something to SAY!

So here we are. Welcome to my brain dump ahead.

Patrick Ta and Painted by Esther and the myth of equal consequences

@whereisperdidaI’m gonna talk about this Patrick ta painted by Esther thing one more time and then I’m done with it. Specifically around the impact of painted by Esther’s work and why it’s important. It is genuinely upsetting to see some of the people that follow me or watch my videos act like blush exists on a world without racism and without the cosmetic impacts of racism when it comes to product development, launch, marketing, and application. Please kindly stop being dim. Please I am begging you. #makeup #makeuptutorial #blush #patrickta #mua

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Let me start here, clearly and without the performative throat-clearing. I love Patrick Ta’s artistry. I love the products. I’ve recommended them, I’ve bought them, and I still think the brand has put out some of the most genuinely exciting mainstream beauty launches in recent years.

And still, this situation was handled poorly. Not only by beauty enthusiasts at large, but also by parts of the Black beauty community.

We need to be honest about how quickly the internet turns into a court, and how often people confuse “speaking up” with public shaming as entertainment.

Am I a fan of public shaming? No. I don’t think dragging is justice. I don’t think quote-tweeting someone into oblivion is “accountability.” But I do have one question that keeps hanging in the air like an unanswered group chat message.

How does outrage about what was done to Esther turn into an apology… and then an episode on Emma Grede’s podcast that further highlights the brand anyway?

That’s the part people keep skipping over because it’s uncomfortable. The arc from “we’re furious” to “here’s a premium platform moment that elevates the same person and brand” is exactly what folks mean when they say outrage is performative. It moves fast, it looks righteous, and it often ends in a net benefit for the person with the biggest machine behind them. PR teams understand this. Brands understand this. The internet—especially the parts that want to be seen as morally “correct”—keeps pretending it doesn’t.

And here’s the uneven part that I don’t think we should sugarcoat. If this had been someone in the Black community who had done the same thing against Esther, the ramifications of judgment would’ve been harsher and more lasting.

There’s a difference between being “called in” and being exiled, and too often Black creators get the exile version, with no press-run redemption tour at the end.

So when people say “cancel culture is out of control,” I usually disagree. Cancel culture isn’t real in the way people claim it is. What’s real is selective consequence. Some people get a lecture, a rebrand, and a bigger spotlight. Others get a pile-on, a permanent stain, and silence.

Target and celebrity pandering and the disrespect packaged as representation

@jordynwoodsIG Reel / TikToWhat beauty products are in my lucky orange bag? I hit up Target SoHo to check out my Beauty Edit, where I’ve curated some of my favorite beauty products, so check it out now in store and online! #TargetSoHo #TargetPartner

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Now let’s talk about Target, because this is where the corporate playbook gets bold and lazy at the same time.

Target’s relationship with the Black community is that they think Black consumers are easy to steer—that we’ll follow any recognizable name like it’s a marching band and we’re obligated to clap.

This is what disregard looks like in marketing form. Not overt racism with a slur. Not even explicit exclusion. It’s being treated like a guaranteed conversion rate. Like a demographic you can “activate” with the right celebrity, the right pastel set design, and a couple words about empowerment.

Chile, the way Target has played in our faces since 2020 and the folx keep tap dancing along for that check is INSANE!

Because if that brand truly respected Black consumers, the investment wouldn’t start and end with famous proximity. It would be a hefty and dedicated investement!

Don’t get me wrong, I love to see Black people win. But, I also love to see us not get played with!

Bread Beauty Supply and a TikTok confession that should have stayed in the drafts

@olamideoloweI need your help rebuilding @BREAD BEAUTY 🥺

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Let me be just as clear here as I was at the top. I love Olamide Olowe. I think Olamide is smart, fearless and genuinely one of the more impressive business minds in the modern beauty space. I’ve watched the way she moves, the way she builds, the way she speaks, and I respect it.

That’s why the TikTok about a recent launch flopping hit me like a record scratch.

Not because failure is shameful. Launches flop every day. Even great brands miscalculate. But the way it was communicated—and what it unintentionally revealed—felt like young CEO oversight. The kind that happens when your instincts are strong, your audience is loud, and you start confusing “feedback” with “strategy.”

Because through the video, what came through wasn’t “we tested, we learned, we’re iterating.” What came through was that there wasn’t a clear go-to-market strategy. And in 2026, that’s a dangerous confession to make publicly, not because it makes you look human, but because it signals uncertainty to the market. Retail partners watch. Competitors watch. Consumers watch. Everyone starts writing your narrative for you.

And I’m going to say the quiet part out loud since we’re here. A brand cannot build a go-to-market plan by dumping comment section insights into Claude and calling it a day.

AI can help organize. It can synthesize. It can draft. But if the plan is basically “let the internet tell me what to do, then let the bot format it,” that’s not leadership, that’s outsourcing judgment. Comments are not research. They’re not segmentation. They’re not positioning. They’re not a channel strategy. They’re the loudest people in the room, and the loudest people are not always your buyers.

Also, we have to stop acting like Black media is dead. Black media still has reach. It still moves culture. It still converts when you use it correctly. It’s still a lever, and it should always be pulled when you’re trying to reach the masses—especially when you’re selling into a community that actually pays attention to who shows up consistently, not just when a campaign needs saving.

If the launch flopped, I’m not mad at the honesty. I’m side-eyeing the gap it exposed. Because the truth is, brands don’t just need product and personality. They need rollout architecture. They need narrative control. They need a real plan that accounts for retail realities, audience behavior, and the difference between engagement and demand.

And before anyone asks for a thread, a deck, a breakdown, and a free consultation in my mentions—no.

This isn’t a strategy session. I’m not giving my insight away for free. And my girl knows exactly how to find me if she wants to talk shop.

One of the most common little costumes I get handed is the word diva.

To be clear, my friend Scot Louie coined it lovingly for the gworls, the chosen family, the people who already know how to hold each other with care.

In that space, the word can be playful, even protective, a wink that says I see you and I celebrate you. But what happens when strangers or casual acquaintances grab that same word and toss it on any Black queer man they “clock.”

It stops being a compliment and starts being a stereotype.

When you call me your diva without my permission, you are not just being funny. You are telling me you have already decided who I am and what role I should play for you. You are putting me into an archetype: loud, sassy, dramatic, disposable entertainment.

You are making my gender expression into a public service.

And yes it can feel emasculating not because femininity is lesser, but because you are using femininity as a way to deny me fullness. You are saying manhood has one shape and I don’t get to have it. You are saying your comfort matters more than my self-definition. You are saying you can name me better than I can.

@stixxinthecitysome people get way too carried away, so here’s a gentle reminder: #diva #lgbt #femboy #pride #fyp

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The part that people miss is that naming is power. Who gets to name you decides how you get treated. Diva is not a neutral word.

In pop culture it often comes with permission to disrespect someone while claiming love. It comes with the idea that if I set a boundary I am being difficult. It comes with the expectation that I should perform and smile while you misunderstand me.

That is why I am asking for something very simple

If I dont give you permission please do not call me anything other than my name.

This is not new. Black women have been clear about how certain words land especially when they come from people who don’t share the experience or who only want the spice without the history. Plenty of folks have had to learn that you do not casually call Black women bitch and then hide behind I meant it as a compliment because intention does not cancel impact.

Jackie Aina also made a clear request about not being called auntie. Not because there is something wrong with aunties but because people were using it to flatten her identity into a role they could consume and move on from. She set the boundary and the respectful thing to do was listen.

@stylingmywaythrouShow launches tomorrow at noon on @YouTube and will be available for audio streaming on all major platforms. Also, STOP CALLING JACKIE AUNTIE!!! #stylingmywaythrough #podcast #comingsoon #jackieaina

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I require the same.

Because language is not just language when it is aimed at Black queer people. We live in a world that already tries to define us before we open our mouths.

A world that polices masculinity and punishes anything that does not fit the script. A world that will celebrate us on a playlist and disrespect us in person. So when you insist on calling me diva after I have not invited you to you are participating in that larger pattern whether you mean to or not.

And let me say this too because it matters:

My femme presentation is not a free pass.

My queerness is not community theater.

My body is not a meme.

My personality is not your accessory.

If you love Black queer men love us enough to do the hard thing which is to be specific. Ask how someone wants to be addressed. Use the name they give you. Use the pronouns they share with you. Let people expand beyond the boxes you learned online.

If you are my friend and we have that kind of relationship cool language can be intimate and fun. If we are not close then keep it respectful until invited deeper. Thats not being sensitive thats being human.

So to the gworls and everyone watching,

Be careful who you place this wording on. Not everybody experiences it as love. Not everybody wants it. And if you want to honor somebody do not start by renaming them. Start by listening.

Call me what I told you to call me.

Call me my name.

That’s first + foremost.

Mobing on to Saturday, May 23, the day of Dre’s cookout, I put on my finest things, but the look is never complete without a scent. Since the weekend was rainy and mildly cold, I reached for a fragrance my dearest girlfriend gifted to me. “Lovely Patchouli 55” by Krigler was the name of the game. I love anything patchouli, and the fact that it was reportedly one of Jackie O’s favorite scents made it feel even more fitting to wear in DC. (Ignore the $$$$ tho lol. You can’t put a price on class!)

Smelling good and looking even better, I collected compliments throughout the function, but none hit like the one from this guy who took his time and told me I looked amazing. He was handsome, definitely within the scope of whatever type I think I have, and I could see the intrusive thoughts winning in real time. After the compliment, he leaned in, put his nose right at the nape of my neck, and said, “You even smell good.” That sealed it.

Tbhhhhh, that interaction set the standard for the rest of my Pride Month. If you are going to step to me, bring that kind of grown, and intentional energy, or keep it on the playground.

But also, not bad for a Krigler moment at all.

Now I am curious which other perfumes in my rotation will pull even more interactions like that all month long.

Will deflee report back!

Happy Pride Month, everyone.

Chile, here we are talking about Emma Greedy again.

This lady recently said she does not invest in first-time founders unless she sees something extraordinary about the proposition, using Ami Colé as an example of what she did not see.

That is not a neutral statement.

It is a public dismissal. It is a framing choice. And it is deeply disrespectful considering the very public record of how Grede has already interacted with Ami Colé and with Diarrha N’Diaye.

What makes this so insulting is the contradiction.

Grede watched Ami Colé rise and fater the brand closed offered N’Diaye a job at SKIMS to produce beauty concepts and ideas.

Read that again.

You do not court a founder for their creative mind, their product instinct, and their ability to turn culture into commerce, and then turn around and say you did not see anything extraordinary.

That is the part that lands as ugly. Because it suggests something else.

It suggests that the “extraordinary” was visible enough to extract.

Visible enough to replicate. Visible enough to turn into a revenue line for someone else.

Chile.

There are cultural and ethnic tones embedded in that disposition.

A familiar pattern in beauty.

A familiar pattern in business.

I do not need to over-explain it. The girls that get it, get it.

Grede also said on a podcast that N’Diaye “perhaps lacked the business acumen to start a business.” That sentence is not feedback.

It is classic white rhetoric and branding.

It is the kind of quote that sticks to a person’s reputation because it sounds like insider truth.

But let’s be serious.

How many founders actually start with real, polished, boardroom-grade acumen?

Most founders start with a point of view.

They start with hunger. They start with taste. They start with community.

They learn the business by doing the business. And when they are resourced, mentored, and funded, they learn faster.

So what, exactly, is the point of using “business acumen” as a weapon?

@essenceimanstraight sounding like a yt VC 😩😭 #emmagrede #amicole #startwithyourself

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The Standard Magically Changes When The Founder is White

I remember ever so clearly how Emily Weiss spoke at Glossier.

In individual conversations and in all-hands meetings, Weiss would talk openly about going to art school and not really knowing what they were doing at the beginning.

People loved it. People romanticized it. People called it visionary.

But when a Black woman is perceived as learning in real time, suddenly it becomes proof they were never qualified.

Suddenly it becomes a punchline.

Suddenly it becomes justification to pass, to dismiss, and to label a Black founder as a “bad fit” to run the brand.

That is anti-Blackness dressed up as discernment.

And the beauty industry will never be as innovative as it claims to be until it stops punishing Black founders for being human while rewarding white founders for being inexperienced.

Point #2: White Male Fragility In Beauty

A friend of mine recently sent me this piece published by Cosmetic Business published an article titled “How Rob Rausch became beauty’s unexpected it boy,” and it infuriated me.

Because it carried the kind of racist and homophobic rhetoric that always shows up when the industry tries to decide which men “count” in beauty.

I have always stood on this hill. Black men, along with Black women, are the future of beauty.

We always have been.

And any time Black men make strides in this space, it gets trampled by white people rushing to rename the moment.

“So this is something different” is a dog whistle

In the article, Olivia Crowley, founder of Living Lavish Social, is quoted saying:

“Beauty has always skewed female, and when men have been included historically, it has tended to be within LGBTQ+ narratives, so this is something different.”[1]

Literally shut the fuck up.

Not because men in LGBTQ+ narratives do not belong.

They do.

But because this framing erases other realities to make a white man feel novel.

There are many straight Black men who fit the bill. There are many Black men doing the work.

There are many Black men building brands, building campaigns, building creative worlds, and building cultural language that everyone else profits from.

But the industry keeps acting like visibility only becomes “different” when it becomes white.

“When It’s White, It’s Right”

That is the throughline.

When it is white, it is safe.

When it is white, it is marketable.

When it is white, it becomes an “it boy” story.

And when it is Black, it becomes a risk.

Or a niche.

Or a trend.

Or something to borrow, dilute, and sell back.

We are exhausted.

And white fragility is a huge part of why the beauty industry cannot move forward without dragging its own bias behind it.

I am genuinely glad the warmer weather is on the way, because this winter felt a little hellish and heavy in every sense. Now I want a reset that feels doable, the kind that starts with small details and builds momentum.

This season, I am treating beauty like re-invention, not overhaul. I want to look like I slept, drank water and went outside on purpose. It’s giving creamy color and minimal effort.

The easiest switch for me is always nails, because they change my whole mood in one appointment. I am giving my signature white manicure and pedicure a break for the time being and leaning into pastels instead. I still want that clean, put-together effect, but in tones that feel lighter and a little more playful: butter yellow, powder pink, lavender and a sheer milky blue. It is my easiest signal that winter is over and that I am entering my spring and summer era on purpose.

Ahead, is my mini spring beauty edit with the best of the best reccs.

Happy Spring, my bby’s!

The Boy Beat’s New Szn, New Itch(B) Spring Refresh:

The Manicure Edit: Pastels With a Point of View

Pastels do not have to read cookie-cutter or like you borrowed someone else’s mood board. (though it’s okay to borrow from mine, because I’m fly like that.)

The difference is intention: choose a shade that feels a little unexpected on you, and commit to it like it is a signature, not a trend. Butter yellow looks sharper when it is paired with short, clean shape. Lavender/lilac eats the best when it is cool and sheer, not sugary. If you are a true baddie, pastels are not precious, they are fresh. They add appeal and direction without screaming for attention, and they never look like you outsourced your taste from others on the internet.

The Skincare Edit: Hydration With Main Character Energy

Spring is when I let my skin breathe again. I am done pretending I need a 12-step K-beauty routine to feel “glowy.” When the weather softens, I want my face to look hydrated, rested and quietly expensive, without a lineup of products

Day (easy spring AM routine)

1. Rinse or gentle cleanse (only if you actually need it)

2. Hydrating layer: one toner essence or serum, not five

3. Moisturizer: lightweight but not flimsy, think cushiony gel cream

4. Sunscreen: the real main character step, every day

Night (soft reset PM routine)

1. Remove makeup SPF: cleansing balm or micellar, whatever you will actually do

2. Gentle cleanse: keep it boring, keep it consistent

3. Treatment, if you want one: one active on rotation, not all of them

   • 2 to 3 nights a week: retinol or an exfoliating acid

   • Off nights: skip actives and just hydrate

4. Moisturize: seal it in

5. Optional: a thin layer of ointment on dry patches only, not your whole face

The Makeup Edit: The One Swipe Face

In spring and the warmer months, I keep it easy but polished. My base is MERIT Beauty The Uniform skin tint, then I add a few swipes of Glossier Boy Brow and YSL Beauty Lash Latex mascara. I finish with a light dusting of setting powder to lock everything in, plus a gloss or lipstick.

Very classy, very demure, very simple.

The Fragrance Edit: Soft Sillage, Big Mood

For spring, I want fragrance the way I want everything else: fresher, lighter, and a little sunlit. My go-to will always be Matiere Premier’s Neroli Oranger, with a small touch of Byredo’s Bal d’Afrique to round it out. Together, they have just enough sillage to feel memorable without ever feeling loud.

“It girl” used to signal a cultural lightning strike. A person with a point of view so specific the rest of the world started orbiting it. Not just someone who looked good in a photo, but someone who changed the temperature of the room. Someone who made taste feel like a force, not a filter.

Now influencer culture has run that word straight into the ground.

Somewhere along the way, we started dubbing people “it girls” for collecting a following. For hopping on the latest fashion trend at exactly the right time. For having flawless hair and makeup. For knowing angles, lighting, and the three best poses to sell a look. None of that is a crime, and some of it is a real skill, but let’s be honest. It’s not the same thing as style, taste, or perspective.

The problem is that social media rewarded what’s repeatable.

@yoncesdildoshe thought ts was funny! #xybca #foryourpage #foryou #beyonce #renaissanceworldtour #fyp

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A true “it girl” energy is usually not repeatable. It is weird. It is singular. It is occasionally polarizing. It is the kind of taste that makes half the room say “I don’t get it,” while the other half starts copying it immediately. That friction is part of the magic.

But once we got a hold of social media for good, “it girl” became another label for viral girls. The algorithm doesn’t care if the look has a point of view. It cares if the look performs. And performance is not the same as impact.

So the title got stretched, then softened, then mass-produced.

@bravowwhl“It was called an icons party, but there were no icons there.” 👀 #WWHL

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We overused it so much we forgot what it was supposed to describe in the first place. When everyone is an “it girl,” no one is. The phrase turns into a compliment you toss at any girl who is pretty, popular and currently circulating.

And if I’m really going to tell the truth, the obsession with crowning “it girls” is a distraction.

Because the gag is, many of us are the “it.” We just got trained to look outward for permission. We got trained to believe the title lives on someone else’s page, someone else’s feed, someone else’s brand deal.

Meanwhile we are sitting right here with the ingredients.

You’ve got the “I” and the (T)ea.

Remember that.

Part of the work starts with something simple but overdue: recognizing that men in beauty are not a monolith.

Some of us are cosmetic chemists. Some are makeup artists. Some are makeup content creators and those roles can overlap. Some work in beauty marketing. Some are hairstylists or hair educators. Some speak about fragrance. Some create fragrances.

When we flatten “men in beauty” into one stereotype, we erase real expertise and limit how the industry imagines participation.

Then we have to shift our mindset around how men engage with beauty in the first place. I once shared on LinkedIn that, as a male beauty writer, I am often invited to beauty events and services I cannot actually partake in. Many responses immediately pivoted to men’s grooming services and beard care. That reaction missed the point. The issue was not a lack of interest in grooming. It was that many brands still are not inclusive of my biology, even though I am a consumer.

I do not grow facial hair, so while the broader conversation about men’s grooming matters, I am not the best person to lead with beard-centric framing. What I want is for commercial beauty to include men of all backgrounds in its marketing strategies and in the way brands show up in Sephora, in ads and everywhere consumers meet the category.

@stixxinthecityto degender beauty, first we all have to change the way we think about the way we see men in these spaces.✨🩵 #advice #beauty #makeup #skincare #fyp

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De-gendering Starts With Language But It Cannot End There

Brands love to say “beauty for everyone,” but their language often tells a different story.

• Product benefits get coded as “women’s concerns” or “men’s concerns” when the underlying needs are human.

• “For men” becomes a narrow shorthand for a specific look, lifestyle, or body.

• “For women” becomes the default, and everyone else is treated like an add-on.

De-gendering beauty means describing outcomes, use cases, and sensorial experiences without assigning them to a gender. It means speaking to people as people.

Stop Redirecting The Conversation To Grooming

When someone points out exclusion, the reflex is often to redirect. For men, that redirect commonly becomes “men’s grooming.”

Grooming is a valid category. So is skincare. So is hair. So is makeup. So is fragrance. But grooming is not a substitute for inclusion.

If the only way the industry knows how to picture men in beauty is through beard care, that is not a consumer insight. That is a creative limitation.

Representation should show more than permission it should show reality

Representation is often treated like a signal, a way of saying “you can be here.” But it should do more than grant permission. It should reflect what is already true.

• Men buy skincare and fragrance at scale.

• Men wear makeup for artistry, confidence, performance and personal style.

• Men work in every layer of the industry, not just the parts that feel “safe” to market.

De-gendered beauty is better beauty

When beauty is designed without gendered constraints, products get clearer, education gets smarter and consumers get more freedom.

• We talk about skin types, not genders.

• We talk about finish and payoff, not who is “allowed” to use it.

• We build services around anatomy and preference, not stereotypes.

The end goal is not a world where men are simply included in a women’s space. The goal is a world where beauty is not gendered in the first place.

Beauty is for all of us.

This is about creating space for a perspective that has been missing from beauty media for far too long. I’ve already been a beauty editor and writer on staff, so I know what it takes to shape coverage, build relationships with brands and tell compelling stories. But now, we need something more. We need a Black man at the executive level to change the tides and what’s being put out to Black people who consume mainstream media. That’s the role I’m manifesting.

Right now, beauty media feels like it’s caught in a cycle. Much of what I read rides the line of SEO x trend reporting, which is fine for the moment we’re in, but it must be cultivated in a way that doesn’t feel like we’re just chasing algorithms.

There’s a richness to beauty culture—especially when it comes to men of all backgrounds using skincare, grooming and color cosmetics—that deserves more than surface-level trend-focused pieces. I want to tell those stories with intention, nuance, and respect for the communities they come from. And I want to do it from a position where I can actually influence what gets prioritized, what gets resources and what gets seen.

Here’s the thing: we’re in a space where contract roles are the go-to. I’d rather not be on staff full-time but create a contract role that would still give me the freedom to take my brand work.

White women have done and are currently still operating in this space, so why can’t a Black man? I’ve seen it happen—top-level editors holding director titles while maintaining their consulting work, their brand partnerships, their creative freedom. If they can navigate that successfully, so can I.

Cheers to manifesting!

xxS

This post contains frank discussion about male anatomy, sexual health and cosmetic genital procedures. Reader discretion is advised. If you’re uncomfortable with open conversations about penile enhancement, erectile function or male sexuality, this might not be the post for you. Proceed with caution and an open mind.

Let’s talk about #PenisTox. For those unfamiliar, it’s a cosmetic procedure designed for men seeking enhanced penile girth or solutions for erectile dysfunction. The treatment uses injectable fillers or neuromodulators to increase size or improve function. Erectile dysfunction is natural as we age and there’s no shame in seeking help.

Personally, if I were to consider PenisTox, it would be purely vanity. I don’t struggle with any of the aforementioned and while I’m not particularly sexually active presently, I’ve received enthusiastic compliments on the parts of my lower regions from interested partners over the years, weeks, months and days.

While I can neither confirm nor deny that all Black men are well-endowed, I can say with certainty that for this Black man, penis size is the least of my worries. I’ve been blessed in ways that have made me grateful rather than anxious.

What PenisTox Actually Does and Who Needs It

PenisTox targets men insecure about size or experiencing erectile issues. The procedure promises increased girth through fillers or improved blood flow through neuromodulators. For men with performance anxiety or age-related changes, these treatments can offer real benefits and renewed confidence.

The medical community has mixed feelings. While some specialists endorse these procedures as safe when performed correctly, others warn about complications including uneven results, scarring, and permanent damage. The FDA hasn’t approved many fillers specifically for penile enhancement, meaning most treatments are off-label.

@dickdocontiktokWould you like to be ABOVE average? With the HapPenis procedure we can help add 1/2 in to 1 1/2 in of girth. Come see us! #happenis #maleenhancement #girth #confidence #lasvegas

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What Vanity Does To Men

I’m all for people doing what makes them feel confident. If PenisTox genuinely improves someone’s quality of life, I’m not here to judge. But for me, the motivation would be purely aesthetic, and that’s where I question whether it’s worth the investment, risk and recovery time.

Many men feel pressure from partners, pornography, or societal expectations about masculine anatomy. That pressure is real and psychologically damaging.

What’s mostly unsaid is that these fillers can migrate, dissolve unevenly or create lumpy appearances. Results last months to a few years, requiring maintenance and ongoing expense.

Navigating Stereotypes and Queer Spaces With Confidence

There’s a long-standing myth about Black men and penis size that’s both pride and burden. I won’t claim every Black man is extraordinarily endowed—that’s untrue and reduces us to harmful stereotypes.

The stereotype is complex and problematic. It’s been used to hypersexualize and dehumanize Black men throughout history, reducing us to our bodies rather than our full humanity. Some Black men lean into it as pride or confidence. I prefer nuance: I’m grateful for what I have, don’t feel the need to prove or disprove stereotypes and don’t need cosmetic enhancement to feel adequate.

Let me be real about something else: Black queer men can be size queens. The community has its own standards and preferences and size is often part of the conversation in ways that can be both playful and judgmental.

For this Black man, penis size ranks low on my list of concerns. I’ve got career goals, health to maintain and a life that doesn’t revolve around my genitalia.

Real Confidence Comes From Within, Not a Syringe

For men considering PenisTox, I encourage deep reflection on motivation. Are you addressing genuine medical issues? Experiencing real distress affecting mental health and relationships? Or chasing an idealized image that may not significantly improve actual experiences? These questions are worth asking before committing to any procedure with potential risks.

Not every man will feel the same way, and that’s valid. But I hope my perspective offers a counterpoint to constant messaging that men need to enhance or improve what they’ve got.

Sometimes what you have is already more than enough.

I won’t tell anyone to shop at Target. But I also won’t tell you to abandon the Black entrepreneurs whose livelihoods depend on your support. The solution isn’t choosing between your principles and your people—it’s about being strategic with where you spend your money. If your favorite Black-owned brands are stocked in retailers that don’t align with our values, your best bet for the health of their business is to shop directly from their website. This is where direct-to-consumer (DTC) shopping becomes not just important, but essential to our economic liberation.

During my time at Glossier, I learned something that fundamentally shaped how I think about beauty retail: DTC made up our biggest revenue stream. Website purchases were king, followed by in-store sales. This wasn’t accidental—it was the result of deliberate investment in technology and creating a user experience so enjoyable that customers chose to come directly to us rather than buy through a middleman. That same model can save Black-owned beauty brands from being collateral damage in necessary boycotts. But first, we need to have an honest conversation about how our brands are showing up online.

The DTC Advantage Nobody Talks About

When you shop directly from a brand’s website, you’re not just making a purchase—you’re making a statement about who deserves to profit from your loyalty. Retail partnerships typically involve margins that eat into a brand’s revenue. A product that costs you $25 at Target might only net the brand $10-12 after retailer markup, distribution costs and retail fees. That same product purchased from the brand’s website? They keep significantly more, sometimes 2-3 times as much per sale.

Beyond the financial math, DTC allows brands to own the customer relationship. They capture your email, understand your purchasing patterns, build community, and create experiences that foster loyalty beyond a single transaction. This is especially crucial for Black-owned brands that have historically been excluded from the legacy beauty industry’s infrastructure and networks. When we shop DTC, we’re helping them build sustainable businesses that don’t depend on the whims of corporate buyers who can drop them when it’s no longer trendy to support diversity.

The data backs this up. During my time at G, I saw how brands that invested in their digital presence weren’t just surviving—they were thriving on their own terms. They controlled their narrative, their pricing, their customer service experience, and most importantly, their destiny. That’s the future I want for every Black-owned beauty brand currently stuck in retail limbo.

Black Brands Must Get Serious About Digital

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: too many of our Black-owned beauty brands have mediocre websites. Slow load times, clunky checkout processes, minimal product information, poor mobile optimization and virtually no investment in the kind of digital experience that converts browsers into buyers. If we’re asking our community to bypass the convenience of retail and come directly to brand websites, those websites need to be worth the trip.

This is about being intentional. Your website should tell your story. It should make me feel something. It should be easy to navigate on my phone at 11 PM when I’m doing my weekly beauty shopping. It should have detailed product descriptions, real customer reviews, and content that educates me about how to use your products.

Black-owned brands need to adopt this same mentality. Invest in good photography. Write compelling copy. Make the checkout process seamless. Offer customer service that responds within 24 hours. Create loyalty programs that reward repeat customers. Build email marketing campaigns that actually provide value instead of just pushing sales. These aren’t nice-to-haves—they’re essentials if you want customers to choose your website over the convenience of mass retail.

The Vision: DTC Plus IRL Community

I imagine a world where our beauty brands don’t need Target at all. Where DTC and IRL community experiences are back in full strength, creating an ecosystem that’s both profitable and culturally resonant. Think about it: pop-up shops in Black neighborhoods, beauty workshops that teach technique while selling product, partnerships with Black-owned salons and barbershops, community events that celebrate our beauty standards instead of trying to fit into mainstream ones.

The Korean beauty industry does this brilliantly, with brands maintaining robust direct sales while creating immersive flagship experiences. Black-owned beauty brands can adapt this model for our community, using technology to drive online sales while maintaining the in-person connection that makes beauty shopping feel personal and culturally affirming.

The pandemic proved that customers will buy beauty online when the experience is right. The social justice awakening of 2020 proved that people will actively seek out Black-owned brands when they’re easy to find and purchase from. Now we need to combine those lessons into a sustainable model that doesn’t depend on retailers who may or may not support us when the cultural winds shift.

This is the future I’m working toward, and I’ll have much more to say about the specifics soon.

My infatuation with lipstick started as a little boy, watching my mom apply her lipstick just to sit in her chair, smoke her cigarette and read. I knew this was the level of class I wanted to embody. It was and is her thing. She requires no audience but herself.

As an avid makeup wearer—though I don’t overly beat my face—you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m going to have a fire lipstick on. For years, it was “Cristiano,” an orange-red matte from Tom Ford Beauty’s “Boys & Girls” collection. That lipstick carried me through many a fashion week press moment, a dependable companion in the chaos of cameras and crowds.

Now, my obsessions have evolved. There’s “Sophistiquée” from Chanel Beauty, a berry hue in a velvet matte finish that feels like luxury distilled into a single swipe. And of course, I’m obsessed with Merit Beauty’s Signature Lip Blush Lipsticks. My favorite shade currently is “Gamay,” a color that just gives both confidence and subtlety.

As a man, many will think that lifting weights and all the hyper-masculine activities solidify their manhood. But for me, it is a bullet of lipstick. Once applied, I feel like the most handsome-beautiful-fine-pretty man that ever was and ever will be.

Because I am.

Lipstick is my armor and my art. It’s how I declare my presence in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with men who love beauty this way. It’s how I love myself out loud, even when there’s no one there to witness it.

So today, on Valentine’s Day, I’m celebrating the oldest love affair I’ve ever had: the one between me and the perfect shade of red (or berry, or nude, or whatever feels right). No partner required. Just me, my reflection, and a little color on my lips.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all the lovers—and to those of us who are our own greatest love story.

Here’s the thing: we appreciate Cardi’s transparency about her natural hair journey. She’s been open about her struggles, her growth, and the work it takes to maintain and love her texture. That vulnerability is real, and it resonates. But somewhere between sharing her story and launching an entire product line, something got lost. Because while we can respect the personal journey, we have to ask the question that’s been sitting heavy on all our chests: did we actually need this to become a brand?

The answer, if we’re being honest, is a resounding no. Not because Cardi doesn’t have the right to launch a business. Not because her hair journey isn’t valid. But because the celebrity beauty industrial complex has become a bloated, exhausting machine that’s drowning out the voices and products of indie founders—especially Black indie founders—who have been doing this work long before it was trendy, profitable, or backed by a record label’s marketing budget.

The Celebrity Beauty Fatigue Is Real

Why does almost every celebrity feel compelled to enter the beauty space? Seriously, who is asking for this? It’s not like we’re suffering from a shortage of haircare options. If anything, the market is oversaturated—especially with celebrity-backed brands that launch with massive fanfare and then quietly fade into obscurity within a year or two.

And here’s where it gets even more exhausting: during a time when so many indie Black beauty brands are struggling to secure funding, shelf space and visibility in their respective categories, we’ve got yet another celebrity—an Afro-Latina one at that—adding to our ever-growing listicle of performative roundups that we’re obligated to dish out during awareness and highlight months. It’s draining.

Where’s the Longevity?

Let’s talk about staying power. How many celebrity beauty brands have actually stood the test of time? We’ve watched launches come and go—big names, big budgets, big promises—and then, crickets. It feels like another cash grab dressed up in buzzwords like “science-backed,” “texture-friendly,” and “natural,” and because we’re so conditioned to respond to that language, the girls are going to eat it up.

But will they still be buying in two years? Three? Or will Grow-Good Beauty become another footnote in the endless scroll of celebrity side hustles?

We’re Tired

So no, true tea, I’m not excited about Grow-Good Beauty. we are tired. Tired of celebrity beauty brands that feel more like vanity projects than genuine contributions to the industry. Tired of watching indie founders get passed over in favor of someone with name recognition and deep pockets. Tired of being expected to celebrate every launch as if it’s a win for representation when, in reality, it often just muddies the waters even more.

Cardi, we love your music. We appreciate your honesty. But this? This feels like a miss.

But from looking on socials something crucial was missing from everyone’s post. There was no call to action. No urgent reminder of the mission. No visibility for the brands supposedly being helped. Instead, I found myself squinting at my screen, trying to remember what the Fifteen Percent Pledge even stood for, because when I look at the current landscape of Black beauty, I don’t see the results matching the fanfare.

Aurora James founded the Fifteen Percent Pledge in 2020 with a clear mission to push retailers to dedicate at least 15% of their shelf space to Black-owned brands. It was a rallying cry born from a moment of racial reckoning, and for a few years, it seemed like real change was happening. According to a recent Vogue article, James stated that the organization has “helped place more than 1,000 Black-owned brands on major retail shelves nationwide” and distributed “over $1 million in grants” last year alone. They claim to support 10,000 entrepreneurs.

But here’s where I need receipts. Where are these 1,000 brands? Who are the 10,000 entrepreneurs and are they actually Black or Brown? Because from where I’m standing, the visibility doesn’t match the numbers.

Yes, there have been notable wins. In 2023, 54 Thrones received $200,000 as the first-ever Achievement Award recipient. In 2024, Hanahana Beauty got the same. Runners-up like Blackstock & Weber and Soap Distillery received smaller grants, and Brown Girl Jane won a $100,000 Sephora Beauty Grant. In 2025, RedDrop took home $200,000, and in 2026, Maed Beauty’s Denise Vasie won $100,000 from Sephora. These brands absolutely deserved recognition. But if over 1,000 brands have been helped and 10,000 entrepreneurs supported, why aren’t we seeing more of them at the gala? Why aren’t their stories flooding our feeds? Why does it feel like the same faces are circulating at the same events, sipping lemon drops and talking about lipstick shades while another Black beauty brand quietly shuts down?

Where Are the 1,000 Brands?

The numbers sound impressive on paper, but the proof should be in the visibility. If the Fifteen Percent Pledge has truly placed over 1,000 Black-owned brands on major retail shelves, we should be seeing an explosion of representation in stores like Sephora, Ulta, and Target. We should be hearing success stories from founders who finally got their big break. Instead, what we’re seeing is silence. The same handful of brands get cycled through press releases and social media posts, while the rest remain invisible. This raises an uncomfortable question: are these 1,000 brands actually thriving, or were they simply counted as a statistic and then left to fend for themselves?

Beyond the brand placements, the claim of supporting 10,000 entrepreneurs needs scrutiny. Who are these people? What kind of support did they receive? Was it a one-hour workshop, a small grant, or sustained mentorship? And crucially, are these entrepreneurs Black and Brown, or has the mission drifted to include a broader, more diluted definition of “diverse”? Without transparency, these numbers become vanity metrics—impressive for a press release but meaningless for the people who need real, sustained support to keep their businesses alive.

The Grant Winners Are Deserving, But They’re Not Enough

Let’s be clear: the brands that have received grants from the Fifteen Percent Pledge are doing incredible work. 54 Thrones brought African beauty traditions to the mainstream. Hanahana Beauty built a brand rooted in ethical sourcing and community impact. RedDrop and Maed Beauty are innovating in their respective lanes. These founders deserve every dollar they’ve received and more. But here’s the problem: these wins are being held up as proof that the system is working, when in reality, they’re the exception, not the rule.

If the Fifteen Percent Pledge is supporting 1,000 brands and 10,000 entrepreneurs, why are we only celebrating a handful of them? Why weren’t more of these founders invited to the gala, or at the very least, spotlighted in the event’s coverage? The optics suggest that the organization is more interested in maintaining relationships with a small circle of high-profile founders than in uplifting the broader community it claims to serve. And while those high-profile founders are taking photos in designer gowns, hundreds of other Black beauty brands are struggling to make payroll, secure funding, or even stay on retail shelves.

The Social Circuit Has Become a Performance

There’s a troubling pattern emerging in the world of Black beauty advocacy. The same organizations host the same events, invite the same people and toast to the same vague notions of progress. Meanwhile, the brands that need help the most—the ones without publicists, without connections, without access to capital—are left out of the conversation entirely. It’s starting to feel less like a movement and more like a social club, where entry is determined by who you know rather than what you need.

The timing of this realization is particularly painful. We’re living in a moment where DEI initiatives are being dismantled across industries, and Black-owned businesses are closing at alarming rates due to economic headwinds.

The need for real, tangible support has never been greater. And yet, the response from these organizations seems to be... more parties. More photo opportunities. More speeches about resilience and community. But where’s the action? Where’s the emergency fund for brands on the verge of closing? Where’s the lobbying effort to protect Black businesses from being pushed out of retail spaces? Where’s the urgency?

We Don’t Need More Marketing Classes, We Need Working Capital

Here’s what Black beauty brands don’t need: another webinar on social media strategy. Another panel discussion about authenticity. Another networking event where they’re told to “lean in” and “build relationships.” What they need is money. Cold, hard, working capital that allows them to manufacture products, pay their teams, and keep their businesses running. They need investors who understand that Black beauty isn’t a trend—it’s a market. They need retailers who will commit to keeping Black brands on shelves beyond a performative Black History Month display.

I say all of this not to tear down the work that’s been done, but to challenge the organizations that claim to be doing this work. If the Fifteen Percent Pledge and similar groups want to remain relevant, they need to evolve beyond their 2020 playbook. They need to move from symbolic gestures to systemic change. That means transparency about where the money is going, accountability for the brands they claim to support, and a willingness to redirect resources toward the founders who need it most—not just the ones who look good in a press release.

It’s Time to Build Something New

I’m not just pointing fingers. I’m also in the process of brainstorming solutions. Because the truth is, we can’t keep waiting for these organizations to get it right. We need to build our own systems for funneling dollars directly to Black-owned beauty brands. We need to create funds that prioritize working capital over vanity projects. We need to establish accountability structures that ensure the money actually reaches the people who need it. And we need to do it with a sense of urgency that matches the crisis we’re facing.

The social organizations and groups that were put into place in 2020 served a purpose. They got the conversation started. They created visibility. But five years later, it’s clear that many of them have become complacent, operating out of tradition rather than necessity. They’re convening for the sake of convening, patting themselves on the back for work that’s already been done, while the brands they claim to serve continue to struggle and shut down. If these organizations can’t or won’t adapt, then it’s time for us to move on without them.

Because while they’re sipping champagne and posing for photos, another Black beauty brand is closing its doors.

And that’s not a cause for celebration—it’s a call to action.

During my time at Glossier, I witnessed a different approach—one that seemed to bypass the traditional retail gatekeepers entirely. Glossier started with the radical idea that the brand was exclusive enough on its own, that it didn’t need to be in a Sephora or Ulta to move the needle. It was about shaping the world of direct-to-consumer, building a community that felt intimate and intentional. But then their strategy shifted, they pivoted into retail and that was all she wrote on that.

When I shifted into working in editorial at an indie publication, this belief deepened into practice. Our stylization training was specific and intentional: when we featured Black and Brown indie brands, we were instructed not to link to Sephora, Ulta, Nordstrom, or any other retailer if those brands were carried there. Instead, we linked directly to the brand’s website, ensuring our readers poured their dollars back into the brand’s community. Also, we didn’t take affiliate links because this was never a “pay to play” kinda thing.

Because at the end of the day, the question overall to ask is: who is retail really for? How does it actually help these brands?

@stixxinthecityone of the keys to surviving as a Black owned brand is by setting your prices right off the rip! trust me, you’ll be better off for this.🤞🏾✨ #blacktiktok #businessowner #businesstips #blackownedbusiness #entrepreneur

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White Brands Get My Retail Dollars Without a Second Thought

I’m so used to seeing white-owned beauty brands in stores that if I’m out shopping, I literally don’t think twice about supporting and buying retail. These brands won’t suffer. They have the infrastructure, the capital, the supply chain relationships and the marketing budgets to not just survive in retail but thrive there. They can afford to take the hit on margins because they’re playing a volume game. They can tote the note to host themselves in these spaces because retail was built for them. The system bends in their favor at every turn.

Black Brands Deserve Better Than the Margins

But when it comes to Black brands who are often marginalized and given the smallest shelf space, the worst placement, and the least promotional support, I’m far more conscious of where I spend my dollars. I’d rather hit up the founder him/herself or shop directly from the site to support the brand’s community and bottom line. I don’t mind waiting for shipping. I don’t need the instant gratification of walking out of Sephora with a bag. Because when you know the back end of the industry—when you understand how damaging being in retail can be for Black-owned brands—you think twice about where your money goes.

@stixxinthecityi stopped with the “signature scent” shenanigans in 2016 because I was giving Golden Girls teas 😭😂 PLEASE!!! My scent is whatever I decide to wear, and you’d best believe I’m going to smell decadent! ✨🤍 I’m wearing @tomfordbeauty x @OCTAVIA MORGAN vanilla scents today!✨ #perfumetiktok #fragrance #smellgood #perfume

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The Visibility Myth

The most common argument for retail is visibility. Being in Sephora or Ulta supposedly puts your brand in front of millions of potential customers who wouldn’t otherwise discover you. And sure, on paper, that sounds like a win. But visibility without support is just exposure, and exposure doesn’t pay the bills. When Black brands land on retail shelves, they’re often placed in the least trafficked sections, given minimal marketing support and expected to perform at the same level as brands with ten times the budget and legacy recognition. The visibility becomes a mirage—you’re seen, but you’re not supported. You’re present, but you’re set up to underperform.

Even when that visibility does translate to sales, it rarely translates to sustainable growth. Retail takes its cut—sometimes 40-50% or more when you factor in promotional fees, chargebacks and markdown allowances. For a small Black-owned brand operating on thin margins, that’s the difference between staying afloat and shutting down. The visibility might get you a spike in awareness, but if the economics don’t work, you’re just burning through cash faster. And when the brand inevitably can’t meet retail’s aggressive sales targets or afford the next round of promotional support, they get pulled from shelves.

The visibility was temporary. The financial damage is permanent.

@stixxinthecitychile, here are my 4 cents on what’s going on at SKIMS….. frfr, protect Black wowmn! #skims #beautynews #news #racism #kardashians

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Retail Is Where Black Brands Go to Die

Case in point: I personally don’t think a brand like Ami Colé should’ve been in Sephora. I believe that she would’ve been kept alive had she stayed DTC, or at the very least, it would’ve kept her around longer. It’s almost as if retail is where Black brands go to die.

When you think of the supply chain, the cost it takes to ship at mass to stores, the chargebacks, the promotional fees, the expectations around discounting and sales velocity—for Black brands, they’re already set up for failure. The math doesn’t math. Retail extracts more than it gives and for founders without generational wealth or venture capital backing, that extraction is fatal.