Beauty Lessons Passed on From Generations of Black Women

Growing up as a Black man, beauty wasn’t just about presentation—it was identity, heritage and healing. My earliest understanding of skin care, self-love and softness came not from magazines or social media, but from the women in my life who treated beauty like a sacred ritual. From cocoa butter to bold lipstick, their routines weren’t about keeping up with trends. They were about protecting the skin they were in and passing down pride through practice.

Some of my best beauty memories come from stories, like the ones my mother told me about her mother, Grandma Barbara, and her grandmother, Genevieve. I don’t remember them personally, but their presence lived in the rituals they left behind. I do have brief memories of Grandma Betty, who stayed with us a few times. She had a quiet strength and a bold sense of style that remains with me today. Each of these women taught me something powerful: Beauty is about knowing who you are and caring for that person with intention.

Grandma Barbara was minimal, but meticulous. Her routine was simple: Cuticura Soap, a classic antiseptic cleanser, followed by her beloved Pond’s moisturizer. She didn’t fuss with foundation or contouring. Instead, she reached for one thing: her dark burgundy lipstick. It was the only makeup she wore, and she wore it with purpose. It was her finishing touch—her signature. For her, beauty wasn’t loud. It was lived-in. Great-Grandma Genevieve had her own take on wellness and beauty. She believed beauty started from within, so she soaked onions in vinegar and drank plenty of water. Every day, she rubbed cocoa butter into her skin with the kind of care that told you she was protecting something sacred. Like Barbara, she relied on Pond’s for moisture. Her skin-first approach was ahead of its time and grounded in tradition, using what was accessible, affordable and trusted.

Grandma Betty, however, brought the glam. She washed with cocoa butter soap and wore Fashion Fair’s iconic bright-red lipstick. I remember how her lip color lit up the room before she even said a word. At a time when few products were made with African American women in mind, she made what she had work—and she worked it flawlessly. She showed me that beauty could be bold, unapologetic and a little fun.

Then there’s my mom—my constant. She kept her routine grounded in nature and consistency. She cleansed with gentle, natural soaps and relied on Pond’s moisturizer. Occasionally, she would use baby lotion, though she later had to let it go as her skin changed. Still, every evening, she would hum softly while applying her cream in the mirror. That moment was more than skin care; it was self-connection. Watching her made me realize that beauty is care, and care is love.

Great-Grandma Genevieve had her own take on wellness and beauty. She believed that beauty started from within, so she soaked onions in vinegar and drank plenty of water.

The stories she shared about my grandmother and great-grandmother, and how I was always so protective of them, helped me understand my own deep connection to the women in my life. That protectiveness evolved into reverence, shaping the close relationships I now hold with my mother and the girlfriends who feel like family.

As I grew older and began exploring my own relationship with beauty, I realized something vital: makeup and skin care aren’t about changing yourself. They’re about amplifying and taking care of what’s already there. Today, beauty is my safe space. Whether I’m applying under-eye patches, layering fragrances or adding a touch of mascara before heading out the door, these moments aren’t about vanity; they’re about visibility. They remind me of my roots—of Grandma Barbara’s lipstick, Grandma Betty’s radiant skin and my mom’s gentle hands.

For many of us in the Black community, beauty is not frivolous. It’s an act of resistance. It’s how we reclaim space, honor our history and declare ourselves worthy. These women made something out of very little and still made time to glow. Their rituals were quiet, but powerful.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see more than my reflection. I see legacy. I see women who used Pond’s and cocoa butter, who wore red lipstick like armor, and who made beauty their own, even when the industry didn’t make space for them.

Their lessons live in every swipe of gloss, every serum I pat into my skin, and every moment I choose myself. And in those moments, I stand tall—moisturized, radiant and deeply loved.