![]() ![]() And yet I wonder how it would have felt to seventeen-year-old me had a brand like Uoma been widely available. It’s an almost post-inclusive approach that leaves me feeling conflicted: I can’t help fearing that the products-which are thoughtfully formulated-will become eclipsed by performative messaging. “The whole story line of ‘Hey, let me bring black soap, let me bring shea butter,’ that’s already done,” she says when I ask how Uoma was shaped by her own heritage. She’s assembled her ideas-bold lipsticks, a brightening concealer called Stay Woke, and eye-shadow palettes that feature vague nods to tribal prints-under the banner of Afropolitanism, a controversial, widely critiqued umbrella term often claimed by African elites to represent an ultramodern, globalized outlook. Uoma’s goal, says Chuter, is to appeal to anyone looking for a forward-thinking beauty platform. ![]() Chuter has also signed up prominent models, including South Sudanese–born Nyakim Gatwech and hijab fashion pioneer Halima Aden, to star in her first campaign. Poised to directly compete with Fenty, Uoma-which means “beautiful” in the Nigerian language Igbo-includes an impressive 51-shade foundation collection that straddles makeup and skin care. “I feel these conversations happening about diversity, but they’ve been really shallow,” agrees Sharon Chuter, a 32-year-old Nigerian-born, London-based beauty veteran who will launch her highly anticipated Uoma Beauty concept at Ulta this spring. My college roommate resigned herself to buying different shades of liquid foundation and alchemizing them into a hybrid of her own. We knew about early brands serving women of color, such as Iman Cosmetics and Black Opal, but they were often relegated to select, far-flung drugstores. One friend recalls an almost-identical prom-night disaster in Paris another remembers the MAC counter, imperfect but dependable, as the only option during her adolescence in Toronto. I have a long-running group chat, home to a range of skin tones, that is full of similar stories. It would be almost a full decade before any foundation touched my skin again. I burst out of the room and sprinted the entire half-mile home, disappointed to have my prom-night dreams dashed and my fears about makeup in general confirmed: It was not for girls who looked like me. A clown with conspicuously pale, cakey skin. But instead of undergoing a chic transformation, I wound up looking like a clown. ![]() It was 2004, the afternoon of my senior prom, and against my better seventeen-year-old judgment, I had accepted my first full-face makeover. The tears came as soon as I saw my reflection in the mirror. ![]()
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