Beauty is a constant struggle: the undecidability of black female beauty in Ecuador

Introduction

As in other Latin American countries, Ecuadorian notions of mestizaje are closely tied to a beauty ideal that privileges white, tall and slender bodies. While this white ideal predominates, alternative conceptions of beauty coexist. Mestiza, Black and Indigenous women, each with their own combinations of physical features and skin tones, are positioned either advantageously or disadvantageously based on their proximity to whiteness. For many Ecuadorians, embodying their own features is fraught with unease, as Eurocentric beauty standards often fail to recognise them. By examining notions of beauty in Ecuador through the lens of young Black women, we move beyond superficial appearances, to explore deeper questions of social worth and the ways in which beauty intersects with power and identity.

Aesthetic notions of the body permeate nationalist discourses, not only shaping public ideologies but also influencing ‘the most intimate domains of feeling, emotion, passion and will’ (Poole, 1997: 166). While this applies to Ecuadorians as a whole, the positioning of white-mestizo, Indigenous and Black groups varies within a chromatic social hierarchy where desirability is closely tied to proximity to whiteness. In the Ecuadorian imagination, mestizaje is understood as the mixture of Spanish and Indigenous elements. Jean Rahier (1998: 422) argues that within this national imaginary, Black people occupy the status of ‘the ultimate other, the non-citizen; they are not part of mestizaje’.

In this article, we analyse the varied responses of young Black women to competing and contradictory notions of beauty. While our primary focus is on Black women, we recognise that Black men face their own struggles regarding beauty, which merit further exploration. Young Black women not only confront the dominant beauty canon that privileges whiter features but also navigate beauty ideals within their own communities which often starkly contrast with white, iconic standards. These alternative ideals frequently emphasise Black difference, particularly in relation to body shape.

This project investigates how young Black women navigate conflicting beauty standards while living in a society dominated by an ideology of mestizaje and a white beauty ideal. Our aim was to analyse their experiences and the subjective, embodied negotiations they undertake at the intersection of race, beauty and the body. We hypothesised that Black women would experience beauty as a site of tension, as their skin, hair and body are often socially perceived as sexually desirable but not necessarily as conventionally beautiful.

Our findings reveal that young Black women's unease with their bodies arises not only from the tension created by an unattainable hegemonic beauty standard but also from the competing beauty ideals within their own communities. These women are not only at odds with the white ideal but may also feel that they are not ‘Black enough’, depending on who is making that evaluation and in what context. We contend that inhabiting a Black body in Ecuador constitutes an ongoing struggle, unfolding within a complex terrain shaped by racism, sexism, Black essentialism and the negotiation of both hegemonic and alternative beauty standards, often in relation to dynamics of inclusion and exclusion.

This article is based on a qualitative study conducted by Morales Perugachi in 2021 and 2022 with young Black professional women from Quito and Valle del Chota in the Imbabura and Carchi provinces of Ecuador (Morales Perugachi, 2023). The research involved in-depth interviews with 12 women, autoethnography and fieldwork visits to beauty salons offering Black hairstyles, artisanal fairs selling items for Black aesthetics and natural health stores that sell products such as Vibazina and beer yeast for weight gain. These varied methods aimed to understand how these women perceive and construct beauty in their lives, exploring how they inhabit their bodies and the impact of racist beauty stereotypes, whitening processes and forms of resistance and resignification of beauty. The interviewees were women in their twenties and early thirties, who identify as heterosexual and have varying levels of involvement in Black organisations and exposure to politicised discourses surrounding Blackness. Pseudonyms are used to preserve participants’ confidentiality.

Understanding black beauty in Latin America and Ecuador

Within Latin America and the Caribbean, understanding beauty requires considering gender in close relation to how racial conceptions shape the imaginaries and experiences of Latin Americans. Appearance, physical characteristics and racialised perceptions of hair and skin colour are significant in Latin America, where they largely influence people's position within ethnoracial hierarchies, and the inequalities associated with them (Telles, 2014). The ideologies of mestizaje or racial miscegenation, which were prevalent throughout much of the 20th century, remain influential today. Mestizaje celebrated the racial and cultural mixing of the population and positioned the mestizo as the ideal citizen of the nation. Although the celebration of miscegenation was intended as a counter-discourse to scientific racism's defence of white supremacy, the ideologies of mestizaje ultimately reinforced racism and perpetuated the notion of the inferiority of the Black and Indigenous populations. In fact, not all mixtures were seen as desirable. The underlying logic of mestizaje was blanqueamiento, or the gradual whitening of the population (Wade, 2009).

The ideology of mestizaje and its exaltation of racial mixing obscures the colonial legacies that continue to privilege whiteness and the mixtures that most closely approximate it. In mestizo societies, ‘we continually place ourselves and are placed by others on a chromatic scale that associates “whiteness”, natural or artificial, with beauty and privilege, power and wealth, and its “opposite”, i.e., brown skin, with ugliness, marginalisation and poverty’ (Navarrete, 2016: 17). Moreover, ideas of progress and of civilisation were closely linked to whiteness (Canessa, 2008), as well as to the notions of the urban and the modern (Rahier, 1998). As a result of a history of colonial domination, these imaginaries have constructed a beauty ideology in Latin America characterised by an aspiration to both whiteness and Europeanness, which are perceived as markers of elite status. This has led to ‘the equation of beautifying the body with whitening it’ (Masi de Casanova, 2018: 14). Thus, in Latin America and the Caribbean, colour remains crucial. Colourism differs from racism ‘in that the latter discriminates based on racial categorisation while the former discriminates based on complexion’ (Gentles-Peart, 2016: 14). Both are present in the experiences of racialised men and women in the region.

Whitening – both biological and social – is a social, political and economic practice adopted by many postcolonial countries to ‘improve the race’. Blanqueamiento, or whitening, is a system that valorises whiteness while rejecting traits and behaviours associated with blackness or indigeneity. In Latin America, understandings of mestizaje have been informed by blanqueamiento, influencing both state-led eugenicist racial projects and gendered trajectories of upward social mobility through practices such as ‘marrying up’ (Wade, 2009). As a result, racialised bodies often adopt practices that bring them closer to whiteness in pursuit of acceptance, privilege and social advancement. The association of whiteness with privilege and upward social mobility marginalises women with fewer European features and darker skin tones. Furthermore, beauty has been constructed in opposition to what is considered ugly. The pigmentocracy of former slave societies in Latin American and the Caribbean has positioned Africans as ‘ugly’, creating a racialised beauty hierarchy that persists to this day (Pinho, 2006).

The Ecuadorian version of mestizaje tends to emphasise the mixture between European and Indigenous populations, without implying that whiteness indianises or that indigeneity whitens. As in other Latin American countries, the subtext of mestizaje has been whitening. Within this framework, Black populations have been rendered marginal. According to Jean Rahier (1998: 422), ‘Afro-Ecuadorians constitute the ultimate Other, some sort of a historical aberration, a noise in the ideological system of nationality, a pollution in the genetic pool, the only true alien, the ‘non-citizen’ par excellence; they are not part of mestizaje’. In this way, white, mestizo, Indigenous and Black Ecuadorians – with our contingent features, sometimes lighter, sometimes darker – are positioned differently within a social hierarchy, where those who approximate whiteness and European features are afforded more privilege.

Most of the population in Ecuador self-identify as mestizo, while Indigenous, Black and Montubio populations are numerically smaller. According to the 2021 census, only 4.1 per cent of the population self-identified as Afro-Ecuadorian, although this figure likely underestimates their actual population, as the 2010 census recorded Afro-Ecuadorians as 7 per cent of the population, contributing to a process of statistical invisibility (Antón Sánchez, 2010). The provinces with the highest Afro-Ecuadorian populations are located on the coast, particularly in Esmeraldas (53.8 per cent) and Guayas. Pichincha and Imbabura, in the highlands, are the next two provinces with the largest Afro-Ecuadorian populations. While in the socio-spatial imaginary, Afro-Ecuadorians are often associated with rural territories in Esmeraldas province and the Chota Valley in Imbabura, 69 per cent of this population lives in urban areas, including the largest cities Guayaquil and Quito (Pillalaza Piguave, 2023). Structural racism, discrimination and limited access to opportunities disproportionately affect Black populations in Ecuador. In 2022, Afro-Ecuadorians had the second highest percentage of income poverty, affecting 33.77 per cent of its population (De Schutter, 2024). Prejudice and discrimination also hinder access to key elements of social life, such as employment, with Black people facing the highest unemployment in the country.

Negative stereotypes also limit the lives and opportunities of Afro-Ecuadorians. The association of Blackness with poverty, crime and violence impacts Black people in Ecuador. Instances of anti-Black discrimination underscore the prevalence of these stereotypes. For example, in 2011, police officers deprived 23 Afro-Ecuadorian citizens, mostly young men, of their liberty while they were enjoying themselves in La Carolina Park in Quito, on suspicion of criminal intent (¿Sospechosos?, 2011). Afro-Ecuadorian women are also affected by these stereotypes, particularly those concerning their bodies. They have been shaped by an exoticising imaginary (Coba, 2007: 192–213; Hernández Basante, 2010). From a mestizo perspective, ‘Afro-Ecuadorian women are synonymous with warmth, curves and desire, but also with poverty, marginality, domestic services and little education’ (García Corredor, 2012: 65). Kattya Hernández Basante (2010: 95) describes how Black women's bodies are viewed as desirable by white-mestizo imaginaries, which constructs them as women ‘with excessive sexual behaviour, as naturally provocative and lustful, therefore immoral’ (Hernández Basante, 2010: 95). That is, they are deemed desirable only insofar as they have been historically constructed as accessible and hypersexual (Hernández Basante, 2009), yet their skin colour, features, bodies and hair are continuously subjected to negative judgements.

In terms of representation, Pontón Cevallos's analysis of advertising in Ecuador found that Black women were largely absent, while white bodies featured prominently in this industry (Pontón Cevallos, 2019). When Black women were represented, Rahier (1999: 102) noted a lack of positive portrayals, instead finding depictions of Black female bodies associated with vulgarity, lack of education and easy sexual access. Nevertheless, Black women have twice been selected as Miss Ecuador. Mónica Chalá became the first Black woman to represent Ecuador at the Miss Universe pageant in 1996, followed by Nayelhi González in 2022. Both selections sparked controversy over whether Black women are truly representative of Ecuador. Rahier (1998) interprets the incorporation of Black female bodies since the 1990s not as a vindication of Ecuadorian Black beauty itself but as a response to transnational Black beauty standards shaped by Europe and the United States.

While Ecuadorian mestizaje has promoted a Eurocentric ideal of beauty – where tall, blond and light-skinned women are considered the most beautiful – Masi de Casanova (2004) found that young women in Ecuador also embrace alternative understandings of beauty, particularly when assessing their peers’ appearances. These young women believe that men in their communities favour fuller body types over the Eurocentric thin ideal. Additionally, they emphasise elements such as style and personal grooming, encapsulated in the notion of being ‘bien arreglada’ (well-groomed). Masi de Casanova's study demonstrates that while the Eurocentric standard is present, it functions as an abstract ideal rather than one necessarily applied to their peers or other women in their lives. Morales Perugachi (2023) also found that beauty ideals specific to the Black communities of the Chota Valley and Quito favour a fuller figure, which is seen as representative of Black women. This preference aligns with those of other Black communities in the Caribbean (Gentles-Peart, 2016).

In contrast to the Eurocentric, white-mestiza body standard of beauty – and in an effort to meet the expectations and standards within Black communities – inhabiting the Black female body and producing Black beauty becomes a battleground, ‘a matter of [both] aesthetics and politics’ (Tate, 2007: 300). Many Black women modify their bodies and hair to align more closely with the ‘whiter’ ideal. In her study of Black women's hair practices in Ecuador, Estacio Caicedo (2021) found that, in response to the perception of Black hair as ‘bad hair’, Black women – particularly those in professional settings – experience strong pressure to straighten their hair to be perceived as ‘professional’. Both Estacio Caicedo and Morales Perugachi (2023) interpret this pressure as a form of aesthetic violence, defined as a ‘set of narratives, representations, practices, and institutions that exert harmful pressure and discrimination on women, compelling them to conform to the prevailing beauty canon and shaping their lived experiences’ (Pineda, 2021: 109).

Thus, the prevailing white-mestiza beauty ideology is harmful to those who are Black or dark-skinned. The constant bombardment of images of white(r) female bodies ‘has contributed to lowering the self-esteem of Afro-descendant women, creating complexes and insecurities, promoting endo-racist thinking, and reinforcing the perceived need for aesthetic modification’ (Pineda, 2021: 80). Black women are praised for their beauty when they approximate white beauty standards, receiving compliments that frame their beauty in relation to a perceived distance from Blackness, such as ‘you are a fine black woman’ (eres una negra fina), ‘you look like a black Barbie’, ‘you are very pretty for a black woman’ and ‘even though you are black you are pretty’ (Morales Perugachi, 2023: 28). The Black female body harbours multiple social imaginaries constructed over centuries, facilitating the unequal and violent treatment that is naturalised and perpetuated in everyday practices and interactions.

Black women find themselves between a rock and a hard place, as their bodily choices are always political and subject to varying interpretations, depending on who is doing the social reading. Beauty becomes a site for the production of racialised subjects, inherently tied to emotional self-construction. For bell hooks, hair straightening represents an imitation of the dominant white group and is often interpreted as signalling ‘internalised racism, self-hatred, and/or low self-esteem’ (hooks, 2005: 5). Thus, from an anti-racist perspective, hair straightening suggests the internalisation of a notion that Black aesthetics are defective and in need of modification. In contrast, Black natural hair is viewed as a symbol of resistance to the framing of Black hair as ‘bad hair’. However, in her study on the representation of the Black female body in Ecuador, Hernández Basante (2010: 28) concluded that ‘the chameleon-like transformations of Black women's aesthetics should in no way be seen as an absence of identity; rather, the use of extensions, braids, hairpieces, or wigs reflects their identity and does not indicate an agenda of aesthetic whitening’.

As Morales Perugachi (2023) argues, inhabiting a Black female body creates constant tension not only with the dominant Eurocentric beauty standard but also with representations of the beautiful body within Black communities. Members of Black communities may endorse an anti-racist aesthetic to counter ‘racialised standards of beauty [that] reproduce the workings of racism by weaving racist assumptions into the daily practices and inner lives of the victims of racism –most saliently here by encouraging them to accept and act on the supposition of their own ugliness’ (Taylor, cited by Tate, 2007: 303). This politicisation of Black beauty, however, may lead to mandates regarding a certain type of hair, body and skin tone – one that ‘can also produce its own normalised racialising standards, its own exclusions’ (Tate, 2007: 306).

The tensions that Black women experience in their bodies and beauty practices render Black beauty an ‘undecidable’. Tate follows Derrida to define an undecidable as:

something that resists binaries “without ever constituting a third term” once and for all. This is impossible because of the “capacity of identification to slip and shift under the weight of fantasy and ideology”, the continuing necessity for essentialism in black identifications and the inclusion of difference. (Tate, 2007: 305)

Thus, due to the legacies of colonialism and slavery, Black women grapple with elements such as ‘light skin’, ‘good features’ and ‘straight hair’ – standards of beauty that approximate white ideals. Nevertheless, they also engage with multiple Black beauty models, each with its own aesthetics and politics. Black anti-racist aesthetics, for instance, have promoted ‘natural’ Black beauty, associating ‘natural’ afro hairstyles with political resistance and self-love, even though they require special care and time-consuming styling. Additionally, in moments of heightened political mobilisation, Black activists have promoted the beauty of dark-skinned women as the most representative of the race (Craig, 2012: 326).

In some communities, ‘authentic’ Black bodies are associated with voluptuousness and a heavier frame (Gentles-Peart, 2016). Black women's actual beauty practices traverse the white/Black divide and may at times conflict with Black essentialism and its various context-specific understandings of ‘authentic’ Black beauty. Moreover, the diverse possibilities of Black hair, skin tones and bodies further complicate the meaning of Black female beauty. A ‘natural’ Black body and hair may, in practice, demand artifice and considerable effort, yet can be rewarded with easier identification with Blackness. Meanwhile, Black women with unaltered relaxed curls, lighter skin or thinner bodies may be perceived as ‘unnatural’. In everyday life, depending on their specific combination of features, bodily practices and stylisation, Black women may experience varying perceptions of beauty – ranging from self-perceived attractiveness to unattractiveness – alongside a sense of inclusion or alienation across spaces where different beauty standards dominate (white, Black or mixed). ¹

We draw on the notion of the undecidability of Black beauty to examine the constant tensions and ongoing negotiations of inhabiting Black female bodies in Ecuador. Additionally, we seek to incorporate the arduous emotional labour entailed in this process. To this end, we engage with the notion of racialised affect, which can be either empowering or liable (Berg and Ramos-Zayas, 2015). On the one hand, liable affect results in the simplification and diminishment of the subjectivity of populations racialised as Other. In Black beauty practices, women may find themselves in interactions where they have little power and where they experience negative emotional energy such as fear, anxiety, shame and guilt. For instance, hair straightening may be perceived as a form of self-hatred or even an affront to the Black community, while simultaneously being regarded by many as necessary for social acceptance, professionalism or simply being ‘bien arreglada’. On the other hand, empowering affect ‘also creates a zone of potentially essentialising and even self-protective interiority that remains agential despite the disciplinary project’ (Berg and Ramos-Zayas, 2015: 663), as when Black communities uphold a voluptuous body as the ideal – a body that contrasts with dominant white beauty but imposes yet another unattainable standard for many. Inhabiting a Black female body in Ecuador, then, situates women in an undecidable position – one of constant oscillation between multiple logics (iconic white, dominant mestizo and various Black alternative beauty ideals). Here, one may continuously shift between racialised empowering and liable affects, between feelings of self-love and self-hatred, collective pride and shame – where certain beautifying practices resist easy categorisation as either empowerment or disempowerment.

In this study, we follow a line of inquiry that interrogates beauty not from a moral perspective – i.e. whether beauty is inherently good or bad – but from a pragmatic perspective: ‘how beauty is defined, deployed, defended, manipulated, and how these tactics intersect with gender and value?’ (Colebrook, 2006: 132). Furthermore, in the context of Latin America and the Caribbean, this focus on the pragmatics of beauty prompts an exploration of its intersection with racial dynamics and projects (see Moreno Figueroa and Rivers-Moore, 2013: 131). In what follows, we demonstrate how young Black women in the highland communities of Quito and Valle del Chota navigate competing beauty ideals. We examine how they feel caught between Eurocentric mestizo ideals and those originating in Black communities, and how their perceptions of beauty or ugliness shift depending on the spaces and communities they inhabit.

Contentious embodiments of hair and skin: between whitening and the constraints of Black beauty

In 2017, Moreno Parra collaborated with Fundación Azúcar, an Afro-Ecuadorian organisation dedicated to promoting Afro-descendant culture, history, music and dance from the territories of Esmeraldas and the Chota Valley (see Fundación Azúcar, n.d.). The organisation also works to promote Black beauty and to foster appreciation for Black bodies and hair. Fundación Azúcar has organised several runway events called Entre Pieles y Cabellos (Between Skins and Hair), in which Afro-Ecuadorian girls and boys participate. One of Fundación Azúcar's founding members, Narcisa, remarked that ‘the pressure remains strong for young women to alter their appearance in order to feel included in a social group to which they feel they do not belong’. This member stated that the goal of the Entre Pieles y Cabellos runway event is:

To challenge that imaginary of beauty, isn’t it true? And that they are in their natural form. There are tall girls, there are short girls, there are fat girls, there are ugly boys, super handsome boys, and all of them have been infused with self-esteem so that they can stand on that stage and showcase themselves naturally. Because the canon of beauty of the black woman, in its essence, in its reality, is not the anorexic 90-60-90 ² woman, but the one who has the mass, big-assed, exuberant, with joy; that is the Black woman. (Interview with Narcisa from Fundación Azúcar, 2017, emphasis added)

The discomfort experienced by participants in our study began early in their lives. All recall painful racist encounters in childhood, which led them to internalise the idea that their hair and skin tone were social markers shaping how their peers treated them in mestizo-dominated environments. From a young age, Black girls become acutely aware that aspects of their bodies are perceived as problematic: at times, their skin colour; at others, their hair. As they grow older, the experience of being a Black woman becomes even more complex: no longer is it just their skin colour or hair texture that causes discomfort but also the shape of their bodies and how they are perceived by others. Black girls are socialised to believe that they inhabit ‘a body in constant need of fixing’ (Rodríguez Velásquez, 2011: 156).

For Black women, hair is not merely a physical marker of racial categorisation; it carries multiple and often contradictory meanings that shape their complex relationship with it. While hair can be a site of discrimination and oppression, Black hairstyling practices can equally serve as an allegory for liberation. Across Latin America, many Black women use hair products and techniques to modify its texture and length. Although hair straightening may be perceived as a capitulation to Eurocentric beauty standards, it should not be assumed to signify a desire to become white (Tate, 2010). For example, Dominican women straighten their hair not to emulate whiteness but to embody a culturally valued racial identity that sits between whiteness and Blackness (Candelario, 2007: 18; Godreau, 2002). In some contexts, hair straightening has also been associated with middle-class status and ‘buena apariencia’ (Pinho, 2006). As Caldwell (2004: 27) observes regarding Black Brazilian women, ‘each generation of women must come to terms with the embodied significance of Black womanhood within a specific sociopolitical context’. Our study similarly revealed generational differences in how participants navigate these practices.

To talk about their hair, our participants use a hair typing system which has four types and three subcategories: straight hair (1a, 1b, 1c); wavy hair (2a, 2b, 2c); curly hair (3a, 3b, 3c); and kinky hair (4a, 4b, 4c) (Gaines et al., 2023). Ashanti, a young woman, commented:

It wasn’t my decision. It was like my aunt and my mother said, ‘You are already this age, and you have to straighten your hair’. Of course, my mother didn’t know how to do my hair; my hair was growing, and it is 4C – extremely heavy and, at that time, very long – so I understand how difficult it was for my mother to manage it. (Interview with Ashanti, 20 February 2022)

The meanings of hair straightening or the use of extensions vary by generation and geographical location. At times, Black women – and their daughters – undergo these procedures to conform to beauty standards imposed by society and internalised within their communities. For the women in our study, the decision to straighten their hair was often made by their mothers – not only in response to imposed beauty ideals but also to spare them the pain these mothers had experienced. By straightening their hair, Black women gained self-confidence and felt more beautiful – and were often perceived as such by others. This shift in perception positively influenced both their self-image and how they were perceived in society.

In the Chota Valley, hair straightening and extensions are not necessarily perceived as acts of self-hatred or as surrendering to white beauty standards. However, the younger generation interprets these practices differently, seeing them as a failure to appreciate the value of natural Black hair. As one participant explained: ‘In the ancestral territory [Chota Valley], you may not have enough to eat, but the [hair] extension and smoothness must be there; they do not recognise the value of their motas [speckles], their curls’ (Interview with Sali, 30 March 2022).

Discussing childhood memories evoked varied emotions among our participants, particularly regarding the influence of family members on their perception of hair and beauty. Lumbrera and Ashanty share similar experiences of their family's perceptions of their hair, which negatively shaped their self-perception as they grew up:

It was horrible. I can say it now. I’ve had my hair straightened since I was five years old, and before that, I don’t remember anything [laughter]. They started straightening my hair when I was five, and my mum did it because she didn’t know how to manage it. She has looser hair, so she didn’t know how to care for mine. (Interview with Lumbrera, 15 January 2022)

In contrast, other participants did not necessarily grow up with negative ideas about their hair. For instance, Morales Perugachi did not internalise feelings of inadequacy or embarrassment about her hair. Her hair texture is 3B and 3C, which sets her apart from her classmates in Quito. However, she did not feel conflicted over it. She kept her hair tied back until she was 15, as she did not know how to style it. Morales Perugachi's curls are within what was considered socially acceptable, meaning her hair did not generate the unease often associated with type 4 hair. Her mother, a mestiza woman, consistently told her that her hair was beautiful, even if it differed from that of her mestiza classmates.

Although they critique hair straightening, our participants understand why their mothers subjected them to it. Kenia, for example, interprets her mother's reaction to her decision to stop straightening her hair as coming from a place of care:

My mum and I used to fight a lot because I was cutting my hair and didn’t want to straighten it anymore. I didn’t understand her at the time. Later, I realised that everything had been more difficult for her, that it had been harder for her and that it was all to protect us. (Interview with Kenia, 26 March 2022)

Hair straightening is part of an ongoing generational dialogue and contestation. The young Black women in our study are influenced by Black activism and Afrocentric aesthetics. While they critique the impact of this practice on their self-perception in childhood, they also acknowledge their mothers’ actions within the context of a racist society. As Hordge-Freeman (2015: 136) argues in the case of Brazil, decisions such as straightening a daughter's hair can be understood as participation in a racial bargain, ‘often made ambivalently, in which Afro-Brazilians comply with racial hierarchies in exchange for perceived payoffs that may be political, economic, psychological, or even affective’. Thus, the critique of hair straightening coexists with an understanding of their mothers’ choices as strategies to shield their daughters from discrimination.

While Afro-Ecuadorian women possess knowledge of hair care and styling (Estacio Caicedo, 2021), some of our participants were raised by mestiza mothers unfamiliar with managing their daughters’ curly hair. For those living in mestizo-dominated contexts such as Quito, finding specialised hair salons or stylists for curly hair is not straightforward. Morales Perugachi reflects on her experience with her curly hair, noting that she only learned how to properly care for her curls in young adulthood:

The need for specialists in textures 3 and 4 is crucial. To illustrate this, I will share my personal experience as a Black woman with 3B and 3C hair. As a teenager, my mother, a mestiza woman, took me to neighbourhood beauty salons run by mestiza women, who would wet my hair, cut the length and thin it to prevent it from bulging. I was always dissatisfied because, once my hair dried, it appeared much shorter – being Afro/curly hair, it shrank. Due to these experiences, I decided to stop going to beauty salons and began cutting my hair at home.

As Morales Perugachi (2023) found in her work, ‘natural’ Black hair requires specialised care that many Black women cannot afford. As a result, even the personal expression of an ‘authentic’ racialised identity often depends on skilled or professional hairstyling. This is one reason why many Black women continue to straighten their hair, viewing it as a form of racial negotiation in a mixed-race society not designed for Black bodies.

Another controversial beauty practice reported by our participants is the use of skin lighteners – a response to the beauty ideal that equates attractiveness with whiteness. Skin colour has been central to racial hierarchies in Latin America, embedded in a pigmentocracy that dates back to European colonisation. Lighter skin is frequently linked to advantages in employment, income and the marriage market. The global expansion of the skin-lightening market further illustrates the widespread preference for lighter skin (Glenn, 2009; Tate, 2016). Dark-skinned women worldwide remain the primary targets of products that are not only largely ineffective but also potentially hazardous (Glenn, 2008). In Ecuador, too, light skin is highly valued in terms of physical appearance and beauty (Masi de Casanova, 2011).

One such product available in Ecuador is Caro White cream, marketed as a blemish remover and skin lightener. However, some Black women use it to lighten their skin in response to the social ideal that ‘the lighter, the better’. During a field visit to a beauty salon in the Carapungo neighbourhood of Quito, Morales Perugachi observed these creams displayed in a glass case. When she inquired about their source, the owner explained that they were imported from Colombia, noting that they are not easy to find in Quito – hence her decision to sell them (Morales Perugachi's Field Diary, 27 July 2022).

Skin lighteners, such as soaps and creams, often contain mercury, as its salts inhibit melanin production, resulting in a lighter complexion. While Caro White cream does not contain mercury, it does contain hydroquinone, a substance equally detrimental to health. In Ecuador, the sale of skin lighteners remains unregulated, despite their increasing use. Globally, the skin-lightening industry is projected to reach a value of US$31.2 billion by 2024 (La Máquina Medio, 2020). The risks associated with skin lighteners have been widely condemned by international organisations. However, as long as social whitening mechanisms continue to shape beauty standards, warnings about the dangers of these products are likely to be ignored. Alika reported the use of Caro White in the Chota Valley:

Lately, in the [Chota] Valley, the use of whitening creams has increased significantly. In the past, you would see a variety of skin tones and undertones in the Valley. Now, everyone looks yellow – like characters from The Simpsons – because they all use this cream. The cream is called Caro White, and I believe it is heavily marketed in Haiti. I have also seen reports from the Dominican Republic where people do not identify as Black. Black Dominicans do not call themselves Black; they simply say they are Dominican, as if it were their ethnicity. Because I am slightly lighter, I feel more accepted – not only by mestizos but also by Black people themselves. (Interview with Alika, 7 February 2022)

In her comment, Alika situates herself within the spectrum of skin tones, allowing her to navigate her position within both the dominant mestizo group and the Black community. She also references the dynamics of skin colour beyond Ecuador, particularly in relation to Haiti and the Dominican Republic. In the Dominican Republic, the preference for a form of whiteness that signals racial mixing is reinforced through bodily practices such as hair straightening and the erasure of Blackness in language used to describe skin tones (Candelario, 2007). Alika does not deny her Blackness but acknowledges the privileges afforded by her lighter complexion. This reflects a broader social reality in the Chota Valley and Quito, where lighter skin – perceived as a marker of privilege – is pursued by many, even at the expense of their health.

Another way to approximate whiteness more quickly and easily is through the use of make-up. Contemporary cosmetic trends often seek to refine features and lighten the skin, reinforcing a broader cultural ideal of whiteness. In this context, the consumption of products designed to bring individuals closer to an ideal of white beauty is both market-driven and heavily capitalised upon. However, whether striving to approximate whiteness or enhance their Black beauty, Black women frequently struggle to find products suited to their specific needs. This challenge is one our participants frequently encounter:

When it comes to make-up, I have yet to find a foundation that matches my skin tone. I’ve had the opportunity to be a make-up model for photo shoots and video clips, but whenever I go to production, they always leave me looking yellow or grey because they never find a foundation shade that suits me. It's incredibly frustrating that there isn’t one. I feel the same issue extends to hair products and the cosmetic industry more broadly – there are very few brands that genuinely consider our skin type. The shades available are always the same: white, pink and bronze. (Interview with Alika, 7 February 2022)

Examining changes in make-up tones sold by Yanbal, Masi de Casanova (2011: 100–105) found that while the company introduced more shades for darker skin, clients were often reluctant to identify with shades labelled as ‘dark’. Despite the expansion of available shades, the products remained lighter than the skin tone of most Ecuadorian women. The lack of access to products for Black skin is not limited to make-up; it also extends to other products linked to skin tone. For example, as Alika remarked: ‘Using sunscreen is also a complex process because it leaves your face very white’ (interview with Alika, 7 February 2022). The limited availability of beauty products for Black women in Ecuador further extends to the fashion industry:

Lately, I discovered nipple covers – supposedly marvellous – and they are pink. They’re pink, they’re ‘skin-coloured’ [laughter], so my nipple is still visible. I thought, I should find darker ones that match my skin tone and actually cover my nipple. That is a very clear example. (Interview with Sanza, 26 February 2022)

From early childhood, young Black women have learned that their bodies evoke discomfort within dominant beauty ideals. The prevalence of mestizo ideologies, which privilege Eurocentric beauty standards, has exposed them to practices such as hair straightening and skin lightening – practices through which both their mothers’ generation and their own navigate their position within the racial order. For the younger women in our study, politicised Afrocentric beauty standards significantly influence their beauty practices and shape how they evaluate those of their Black peers. Although memories of hair straightening may be painful, they do not judge these practices harshly; they recognise the racial bargain in which their mothers were engaged. Instead, they have embraced Afrocentric beauty ideals, valuing natural hairstyles and darker skin as markers of ‘authenticity’ (Tate, 2010). However, they also face practical barriers in achieving this embodiment, such as the limited availability of products and the high costs of specialised services. While their aesthetic choices align with a politicised Black beauty and resist Eurocentric beauty standards, as we will see, these young women often struggle with how their bodies are read within Black communities.

The body as a battlefield: not being Black enough

Black women must not only confront hegemonic white-mestizo beauty ideals but also navigate a dual demand: one shaped by the stereotypes imposed by white-mestizo society and the other by the Black community itself. Some participants’ past beauty practices, such as straightening their hair from an early age or using lightening creams, were intended to approximate whiteness. However, driven by a politicised understanding of beauty, they have since questioned these practices and embraced natural Black beauty. Nevertheless, their Black bodies may still not align with yet another beauty standard – the one upheld within their own Black communities.

In Ecuador, the ideal body type is not necessarily the slender, Eurocentric model but rather a curvier figure, characteristic of Latina beauty standards (Masi de Casanova, 2004: 287–308). Within Afro-Ecuadorian communities, the ideal body type is even more voluptuous, often associated with large buttocks and legs, or what is locally referred to as ‘having caldo’ (meaning ‘stock’ or ‘broth’). One of the participants, Lumbrera, a young woman educated at an elite university, recalls that a tall, thin body was admired by her mestizo peers. However, within the Black community, her body was not regarded as attractive. The expectations placed on her body differed from those imposed on upper-class mestiza women – her university peers – as they were shaped by the beauty standards of the Black community:

Most people go on diets to lose weight; I went on a diet to get fat – consuming products, spending money, going to nutritionists. Nobody understands that I don’t see it that way [laughter]; this is just how I am. It has been exhausting – economically, emotionally and psychologically. As I was saying, I used to live at war with myself. I was tired; I didn’t want to hear the constant remarks – ‘You will eat, come here, we are going to feed you’ – or people telling my mother, ‘You’ll see, the máchica [toasted barley flour] will make you fat’. All the conversations about me eating too little – when in reality, I eat less simply because my stomach is small and, obviously, I can’t eat as much. (Interview with Lumbrera, 15 January 2022)

Over half of the participants reported that relatives, friends or acquaintances had suggested they take Vibazina, a drug ‘also known as buclizine hydrochloride, a corticosteroid that induces weight gain in individuals with low body mass. However, like any drug, its indiscriminate use without a prescription can be dangerous’ (Pulzo, 2021). On 30 June 2020, the National Agency for Regulation and Health Surveillance (ARCSA) issued a warning about the promotion of Vibazina 25 mg (buclizine hydrochloride) featuring the Pfizer logo on social media, despite the product lacking proper health registration. ARCSA stated that ‘its quality, safety, and efficacy cannot be guaranteed, and it therefore represents a risk to public health’ (ARCSA, 2020).

Another product that several participants reported being recommended is brewer's yeast, widely promoted on social media and various websites as a supplement for weight gain due to its high protein and carbohydrate content. However, two participants had negative experiences with it:

Once, I was advised to take brewer's yeast pills. I took them, but the only effect was terrible abdominal bloating – the yeast made my belly swell – and I noticed no change. Now, I exercise, but more for health reasons than for aesthetics. Back then, I took brewer's yeast, shakes and other supplements to conform to what a Black woman ‘should’ look like. Then I understood – I saw the light. (Interview with Aliou, 12 February 2022)

Both Aliou and Lumbrera took pills that caused them physical discomfort in an effort to meet social expectations of how a Black woman's body should look. Both have a slim physique, which aligns with the aesthetic norm of white-mestizo society. However, as Afro-Ecuadorian women, they are expected to have a different type of body – one considered ‘voluptuous’. Crucially, neither Aliou nor Lumbrera can simply exist as they naturally are and expect unquestioned acceptance in their own Black community:

For my classmates at university, I had the ‘perfect’ body – an hourglass figure, a flat abdomen, small breasts and small buttocks. Yet, when I was among my Afro community, I was seen as only ‘half’ Black; they called me negra clarificada, ablancada [lightened, whitened Black woman]. The ideal Black female body is different – it is corpulent, thick and curvaceous. The body rejected by white aesthetics is the ideal body for a Black woman. That is precisely the discourse: what white society rejects is what Black women should aspire to. (Interview with Lumbrera, 15 January 2022)

In this context, an implicit anti-racist aesthetic position emerges, opposing the thin body ideal of white beauty. During the Entre Pieles y Cabellos runway, Narcisa initially stated that the aim was to show that all bodies – whether small, tall, big, thin, ‘ugly’ or ‘handsome’ – could take the stage. However, she quickly added that the Black body, in its essence, is characterised by mass – big-assed and exuberant. While the runway promoted the acceptance of Black bodies as they are, it also carried an undercurrent of essentialism, privileging certain body types – specifically, large, curvy bodies – as authentically Black. Although the anti-racist goal of the runway is to challenge the perceived ugliness of Black bodies and encourage self-acceptance, essentialist views of Blackness may alienate some participants from fully identifying with the group.

Within Afro-Caribbean communities and their diaspora, the voluptuous Black body is also considered the ideal. Gentles-Peart (2016: 6) argues that the surveillance and regulation of women's bodies to maintain this larger ideal is not benign; rather, it can lead to eating disorders and excessive consumption of dietary supplements. In some cases, the absence of a ‘voluptuous’ body made certain Black women feel ‘not Black enough’ and ‘lacking the erotic sexuality ascribed to Black women’ (Gentles-Peart, 2016: 2). Similarly, as illustrated by our participants’ experiences, they are caught between two competing beauty norms: the white-mestizo standard, which marginalises them from economic, social and political spaces, and the anti-racist view, which normalises more voluptuous bodies as ‘authentically’ Black. This tension is especially evident in Lumbrera's case, as she resists being excluded from the Black community due to her slenderness. For Lumbrera, how other Black people perceive her matters greatly, as her body type creates a barrier to identification within Black culture. ³ Thus, any reformulation of Black beauty retains contradictory elements, making it an ‘undecidable’ (Tate, 2007: 308).

Body positivity, self-acceptance and healing

The body positivity movement encourages women to love and accept themselves as they are, with a particular call for Black women to embrace their bodies – often emphasising larger body types. However, this contemporary mandate is difficult to fulfil for many Black women, who carry the weight of racist stereotypes labelling them ‘dirty’, ‘unkempt’, ‘poor’ and more. These stereotypes profoundly shape Black women's self-perception and beauty ideals, fostering a sense that their bodies inherently require modification, ‘fixing’ or extra care. When society repeatedly signals that your body is unacceptable, you are more likely to seek ways to alter or improve it. Lumbrera critiques the body positivity movement's approach to race, highlighting how it often overlooks the unique ways that Black bodies are judged. During a gathering of Black women, she criticised feminist discourses advocating for body hair acceptance and encouraging women not to remove it. However, she noted that when a Black woman appears in public with unshaved armpits, she is quickly labelled ‘dirty’.

In the pursuit of political vindication, Black activists have championed the aesthetics of natural Afro beauty. However, as with many beauty-related demands, achieving this is not always straightforward. Even when wearing their hair naturally, they are questioned about how they style it. Specific expectations exist regarding how defined curls should be and how well-groomed braids must appear. Black hair requires specialised care, specific products and skilled stylists. In the urban areas where some of our participants live, few stylists are trained to cut 4C hair, and those who are in high demand charge premium prices. As a result, many cannot afford these specialised products and services. While advocating for natural hair challenges racist stereotypes, it also generates new demands on what constitutes ‘natural’ Black hair.

Nevertheless, the body positivity movement promotes the idea that self-love is essential to feeling good. However, one participant challenged this notion:

It's not always like that. Yet, it seems that now everyone is expected to present only their most beautiful side, and we forget that, to feel good, we must also experience moments of decline. Feeling sadness is just as necessary. Yet today, we are told that our self-esteem must always be at its highest, that self-love must be absolute. This version of body positivity leads us to suppress our struggles. We fear showing vulnerability because it is not what's trending right now. (Interview with Alika, 7 February 2022)

The journey to self-acceptance of one's body is complex. The participants emphasise that this journey has not been easy and that they continue to struggle. They recognise that body acceptance is not just a discourse but an ongoing practice. This process entails both ‘penalties and pleasures in women's lives’ (Craig, 2006: 159) and internal battles: ‘It's like a love-hate relationship with your hair – you hate it when it's undefined, and you love it when you’ve finally managed to tame it’ (interview with Alika, 7 February 2022).

The participants have taken diverse paths to healing, navigating struggles with emotions tied to their Black identity and perceptions of beauty. These paths range from psychological therapy to political consciousness and organising. Achieving physical and mental well-being is an ongoing process, marked by progress and setbacks, ambivalence and fluctuations between pain and healing. Some participants find that gathering in autonomous spaces with other Black women fosters exchanges that promote healing. During a conversation among friends – all Black women – Lumbrera remarked: ‘It's no coincidence that since creating these spaces, we all feel better about ourselves and our bodies’. Aziza, another participant, responded: ‘Healing is collective’ (Morales Perugachi’s Field Diary, 29 January 2022).

For others, Black feminism provided a pathway to healing:

Feminism saved my life (…) but not feminism in general. It was through Black feminism –because there, they talk about this; they talk about discrimination. There, feminism gives you the freedom to be a diverse woman, a diverse person, a non-hegemonic person. And I say Black feminism because other forms of feminism don’t do this; they impose limits on how feminists should be. Black feminism tells you: if you’re a thin Black woman, it's okay – empower yourself. If you’re a corpulent Black woman, it's okay – empower yourself. If you’re a lesbian Black woman who wants to look like a boy, it's okay. If you’re a non-binary woman and a feminist, it's okay. And that changed me. For me, there is no other way but feminism. (Interview with Lumbrera, 15 January 2022)

For others, acceptance and healing came through engaging with Black history, particularly via Afro-Ecuadorian organisations and collectives. In this context, body positivity fell short of addressing the specific challenges that Black women face in a mestizo society – one that continues to privilege bodies closer to the white European ideal while marginalising Black bodies, hair and skin.

Conclusion

In her study of adolescents in Guayaquil, Ecuador's main port city, Masi de Casanova (2011: 303) found that despite the dominance of white beauty ideals, these young women reported high levels of body satisfaction. They did not measure their own or their peers’ worth against dominant white ideals. In contrast, our participants frequently expressed body dissatisfaction. Blackness does not easily align with Ecuadorian cultural norms that prioritise whiteness, nor does it fully fit within the more flexible beauty standards that Guayaquileña adolescents apply to the women in their lives. Our participants find themselves excluded from spaces that prioritise whiteness in beauty, while also navigating complex generational and context-specific understandings of Black beauty. These competing aesthetics grant privilege and inclusion to some while alienating others. Moreover, the same physical features and body shape are judged differently as these Black women move through social spaces that prioritise white, mestiza or Black beauty ideals.

The version of mestizaje prevalent in Ecuador may grant flexibility to those categorised as white or mestizo, but not to Afro-Ecuadorians. Our participants experience this alienation, yet they do not always embrace their Black bodies with ease, especially when confronted with Black essentialism, which valorises natural hair and imposes its own exclusions. Hair texture and style, skin tone and body shape and size all play a crucial role in how our participants embody their Black identity. How they are perceived – both within their Black communities and in the broader mestizo society – matters to them.

Most young Black women in our study underwent hair straightening in childhood, often at the initiation of their mothers. Uncertain how to manage or care for Black hair, these mothers sought to spare their children the pain and discrimination they themselves had endured. For many, hair straightening boosted self-confidence and enhanced both their self-perception and how others viewed their beauty. While straightened hair was seen as empowering within these families, it was often criticised as an act of whitening and rejection of Blackness – particularly at events like Entre Pieles y Cabellos and within more politicised Black beauty narratives. Others, however, saw it as one of many aesthetic choices in the ‘chameleon-like transformation of Black women's aesthetics’ (Hernández Basante, 2010: 28) or as part of the diverse spectrum of Black beauty ideals (Tate, 2010).

The pressures placed on Black bodies have led some Black women to adopt practices that harm their physical and mental health. These include excessive exercise to enlarge their legs and buttocks, as well as taking pills like Vibazina or brewer's yeast to gain weight or muscle mass. Although Black bodies are diverse, their association with voluptuousness pressures some women to pursue beauty ideals, even when these practices are harmful. Our participants recognised the negative effects of these products, despite having used some themselves. The results they achieve are often unsatisfactory. This dissatisfaction fuels criticism of the idealised voluptuous body standard promoted within Black communities. Similarly, products like Caro White cream have been criticised for their health risks and ineffectiveness. One participant highlights the tension between criticising skin-lightening practices (‘they look like the Simpsons’) and recognising the relative privilege that lighter skin affords in both white-mestizo and Black communities.

Additional obstacles hinder the pursuit of the idealised Black beauty standard. Access to specialised products and services remains a recurring challenge for our participants. In Ecuador, the market for products catering to Black women is relatively new, possibly due to the historical association of Black people with poverty. The assumption of limited demand from Black consumers contrasts with the growing interest among young Black women in beauty products specifically designed for their skin and hair. This lack of suitable products limits their agency in styling their hair as they wish or finding an appropriate foundation shade. Furthermore, the scarcity of products and services drives up costs, making them accessible only to a few.

Young Black women also engage with emerging trends like body positivity, which promotes body acceptance by emphasising bodily diversity. However, the specific beauty challenges that Black women face do not fully align with body positivity discourses. Black women's bodies are burdened with mandates. They face pressure to conform to specific beauty standards while simultaneously contending with negative stereotypes. Body positivity overlooks the collective-historical realities of specific groups and the careful negotiations they make regarding personal presentation.

The processes described have, at times, fostered feelings of acceptance and self-esteem – such as when mothers and others praised their straightened hair – while at other times, they have led to feelings of inadequacy, insecurity and negative self-perception when their bodies are questioned for not being light enough or for not being Black and voluptuous enough. As these young women engage with more politicised Black activism, they critique practices that devalue natural Black hair while also grappling with standards of voluptuousness rooted in their own communities.

The undecidability of Black beauty places Black women in a constant struggle, where beauty evokes ambivalence – fluctuating between self-love and self-hate, inclusion and exclusion, recognition and denial. Finally, as our participants demonstrate, an anti-racist aesthetic must recognise the importance of autonomous spaces where Black women can connect with peers and find acceptance shaped by Black feminism and diverse expressions of Black beauty. These spaces must challenge both white normative standards and Black essentialism, ensuring they do not create new exclusions or unattainable ideals.