For the entire month of July, BET.com's "Black Beauty Guide" will explore all aspects of Black beauty.

If you were a dark-skinned Black woman coming of age in the '90s or early 2000s, that backhanded compliment was likely whispered (or shouted) your way at least once. At a time when video vixens with loose curls, light eyes, and racially ambiguous features dominated the screens, Black beauty—specifically darker-skinned beauty—was boxed into a narrow ideal. Straight hair was the gold standard, lip liner was rarely your shade, and your features were either too bold, too ethnic, or too “urban” to be considered conventionally attractive.

Fast forward to 2025, and the conversation around Black beauty has exploded in every direction. The filters are different. The brands are Blacker. The bodies are bolder. But the question still lingers: What is Black beauty—and who gets to define it?

Let’s be real. Black beauty in the '90s and early 2000s was a battleground. On one hand, we had iconic queens like Naomi Campbell, Nia Long, Lauryn Hill, and Aaliyah setting the tone—representing a range of textures, tones, and attitudes. But on the other hand, there was a clear, unspoken rubric that centered lighter-skinned women with looser curls. The “video girl” aesthetic reigned supreme: long weaves, flat stomachs, and a face that looked like it could pass through multiple racial doors.

Hair relaxers were a rite of passage. “Good hair” was whispered with reverence. And beauty brands barely made foundations that didn’t stop at “mocha.” If you were a dark-skinned woman trying to find your shade at the drugstore? Good luck. Black beauty was often marketed through a white lens, meaning our features were softened or modified to meet proximity to whiteness.

The early 2000s saw some progress. Queen Latifah became a COVERGIRL. Iman built her own makeup empire for women of color. Black hair magazines like Hype Hair or Sophisticate’s Black Hair Styles & Care Guide sat proudly on salon tables. But those moments felt like exceptions, not the rule.

Then came the internet. And with it, a digital rebellion. YouTube birthed the natural hair movement. Black women began to teach each other how to twist, braid, and detangle—using ingredients their grandmothers used before SheaMoisture ever got on a Target shelf. Beauty became more democratized, with vloggers like Jackie Aina, Naptural85, and Alissa Ashley not just reviewing products, but demanding change.

Suddenly, the gatekeepers didn’t matter as much. We had our own platforms. And Black beauty began to break away from just being aesthetic—it became deeply political.

Going natural wasn’t just about style; it was about rejecting decades of Eurocentric ideals. Showing dark skin in full, unretouched glory wasn’t just bold—it was radical. The beauty revolution wasn’t coming from a boardroom. It was happening in bathrooms, on smartphones, and in communities where “beautiful” had never been the default label.

Today, we’re in a paradox. On the surface, Black beauty is everywhere. We’ve got Fenty Beauty shifting the entire complexion industry. We’ve got editorial spreads with bald Black femmes, deep complexions, vitiligo, stretch marks—and not just for shock value. We’ve got creators with 4C hair getting brand deals. The language has changed: “melanin magic,” “skin like syrup,” “Black don’t crack.”

But dig deeper, and the struggle isn’t over. A lot of what we’re seeing is still curated by brands who know “diversity sells.” Tokenism still lingers. And sometimes, the “acceptable” version of Black beauty still falls into that familiar mold—slim, light, symmetrical, and preferably with baby hairs laid to perfection.

We’re still contending with colorism, texturism, and fatphobia within our own communities. We’re still seeing beauty content that centers biracial or racially ambiguous influencers while darker, fuller, kinkier girls get labeled “too much.” Black beauty may be mainstream now—but that doesn’t mean it’s being defined on our terms.

It means complexity. It means duality. It means we can do all of it and not be boxed in.

Black beauty in 2025 is…

• A grandmother using clove oil to condition her scalp while her granddaughter preps her lacefront with edge control.
• A dark-skinned trans woman in a red lip with unbothered confidence, walking the streets like it’s her runway.
• A 10-step skincare routine by a Ghanaian-born esthetician who mixes science with spirituality.
• A Gen Z creator remixing ‘90s bead styles into something editorial and futuristic.
• A beauty founder refusing to lighten photos of her models because “real skin comes with shadows, honey.”

Black beauty isn’t about one aesthetic. It’s the freedom to explore every aesthetic and still know you’re valid.

It’s also a refusal to keep chasing Eurocentric praise. Our features are no longer “trendy”—they’re ours. And the world can’t keep profiting off them without acknowledging the people they came from.

Let’s be clear: Black beauty isn’t just about pretty faces and products. It’s tied to access, equity, and health. We still need:

• More Black dermatologists who understand melanin-rich skin
• Beauty campaigns that don’t stop at skin-deep “inclusion”
• Real investment in Black-owned brands, not just seasonal shelf space
• Education around the mental health impacts of beauty bias and colorism
• Space for gender non-conforming and disabled Black folks to be seen and celebrated

In 2025, we’re not asking anyone to define Black beauty for us. We’re doing it ourselves. Every loc, freckle, scar, coil, tattoo, brow, stretch mark, twist, or fade tells a story. And every version of our beauty deserves to be honored—not just the ones that feel palatable to the masses.

Black beauty is spiritual. It’s ancestral. It’s experimental. And most of all, it’s ours.

So let’s stop asking if we fit the mold. Let’s remember—we made the mold.