African Beauty in a Nordic Mirror: What They Don’t Tell You About Representation
The first time I walked into a beauty store in Finland, I
felt like I had wandered onto the set of Frozen – only this time, Elsa had
taken over the skincare aisle. Rows of porcelain-toned foundations, icy-blonde
hair dyes, and moisturizers that proudly declared they would make my skin
“brighter, whiter, and lighter.” I blinked. Once. Twice. Then whispered under
my breath, “God abeg, where’s the shea butter?”
When I moved from my warm, melanin-celebrating homeland to this icy wonderland of introverts, saunas, and snow, I expected cultural shock. I braced myself for the silent bus rides, the food with zero pepper, and the weather that felt like punishment. But what I didn’t fully prepare for was how deeply invisible I would feel in the world of beauty.
You see, African beauty is a celebration. It’s bold colors,
rich skin, natural hair that defies gravity, and curves that don’t apologize.
It’s Ankara prints that scream joy, and skin that glows like it’s been kissed
by the sun itself. But in the Nordic mirror, beauty often whispers – pale skin,
thin frames, icy blue eyes, straight hair, and a minimalist “less is more”
approach that feels more like “less of me, please.”
It’s not that Nordic beauty is wrong. It’s just that when
it's the only image plastered on billboards, fashion ads, and store shelves, it
begins to whisper something to those of us who don’t fit the mold: You are the
exception, not the standard.
In a world where representation is still whispered rather than shouted, I often find myself having to explain my hair. “Is it real?” “How long did it take?” “Can I touch it?” And while I’ve perfected the smile-and-explain routine, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to walk into a salon that already knows what a silk press or box braid is – without me having to explain with Google images.
But let me be clear: this is not a sob story. It’s a mirror
check. Because even in this lack of representation, I’ve found something
powerful – a deeper connection to my identity. I now wear my Afro and braids
like a crown. Not just for style, but as a quiet protest, a declaration: “I’m
here. I’m beautiful. And I do not need to shrink to fit.”
And beauty, I’ve learned, isn’t found in shelves or
advertisements – it’s in the stories we carry, the traditions we uphold, and
the confidence with which we take up space. It’s in teaching your Finnish
classmates how to pronounce “Uyai” without making it sound like a sneeze. It’s
in starting a braiding business in a town where no one else knows how to part
kinky hair, and watching their faces light up when they see what your hands can
do.
Representation matters, not just for vanity, but for validation. For the little African girl in Helsinki who’s just starting to wonder if her skin is “too dark” or her nose is “too wide.” For the grown woman who still hears the echoes of colonial beauty standards in her head. For me. For you.
So the next time I look into a Nordic mirror and see nothing
that looks like me, I won’t flinch. I will just pull a little strand of my hair,
pop my lip gloss, and remind that mirror what beauty really looks like –
layered, loud, proud, and unapologetically African.