In the continuance of my reading journey, I am now on to Hope in a Jar by Kathy Peiss. I already had plans to write about various instances wherein beauty culture proved to be economically empowering to women as this is in keeping with my reading and observation about African American women and beauty culture from last summer’s NEH Institute, The New Negro Renaissance in America. I am further inspired (and disheartened—how could even Miss Lady say it better?) by numerous paragraphs from her introduction that capture this perfectly.
Peiss says “…this business for women was largely built by women.” And … “The very notion of femininity, emphasizing women’s innate taste for beauty opened opportunities for women in this business, even as it restricted them elsewhere. And women seized their chances, becoming entrepreneurs, inventors, manufacturers, distributors, and promoters. Handicapped in pursuing standard business practices, they resourcefully founded salons, beauty schools, correspondence courses, and mail-order companies.”
All this, I already discovered during last summer’s work, but I really like the way that Peiss words and contextualizes this in the debate (though it sometimes seems like a closed case) over the meaning of cosmetics and beauty culture for women. It seems sensible enough, but we have been well- versed since at least the second wave of feminism in essentializing the cosmetics industry as mere purveyors of false hope and subjugation to ultimately destructive beauty ideals. I don’t want to say that it isn’t that…cause it is, but that’s not all that beauty culture is.
In addition to being a woman surviving in the media- rich modern American beauty culture, I am also someone who worked in the industry, “behind the chair”, as the expression goes for hairstylists, who continues to do hair in the bizarre world of the wedding industry, and who holds many acquaintances working in various capacities in beauty culture from cosmetics counters to “med-spas.” I had long ago written it off as a predatory industry from both my points of view as a provider and a consumer of beauty culture. To sell silicone laden shampoo, companies create the idea that your hair isn’t shiny enough. To sell “wrinkle cream” aka anti-aging products, marketers (whether on Madison Ave or behind the counter) prey upon the complex web of fears women often experience concerning aging. Self-tanner becomes necessary if pale skin is seen as undesirable, cellulite cream is for the poor unfortunate victim of that assault on thigh perfection, stupid unhealthy douches are sold to anyone with most any kinda fear about what lurks “down there.” Given the extent to which marketing exploits (or creates?) societal fears, the lack of efficacy in the face of considerable expense, and the sometimes dangerous and misrepresented side effects, it’s was pretty easy to come to a negative conclusion, especially as I experienced a growing feminist consciousness toward the end of my full-time hairstyling career. (In case anyone is curious, I dealt with this by promising myself to never ever knowingly trade off someone’s insecurities, and to only promote reasonably priced and practical hair products. I can say that my conscience feels clean, though it might again be one of those issues where I kid myself. I did lose out on clients a few times because I declined to perform unneeded services.)
I was struck however, with a new thought, upon learning about Madam CJ Walker’s accomplishments within African- American beauty culture at the beginning of the 20th century. There are numerous biographies and websites dedicated to Madam CJ Walker and I will most likely write more about her here as well, but suffice it to say that she made a lot of money selling the “hair grower” she invented and further empowered other African- American women to have careers outside of modest or low paying jobs in domestic service to white households. It was then that I saw what had been in front of me all along—what beauty culture had done for me and for other women I know.
When I was fifteen, I made the decision to enter my school’s cosmetology program the following year. At that tender point in my early days as a rebel, I really just wanted to learn to color my own hair pink, but before very long in the program I began to picture something I just hadn’t really pictured yet: a career, adulthood, independence. As I grew up, completed my program, and became an officially licensed beauty operator by the then governing agency, the Texas State Board of Cosmetology, I gained a real career and a sense of personal efficacy through working. Hell, I gained a work ethic…because I didn’t have one before. I was fortunate enough to have some financial support from my parents as I decided to continue college and pursue teaching, but during this time hairstyling paid for my car and entertainment expenses and eventually my living expenses as I (arguably) learned how to be an adult. More importantly, it gave me a base of learning experiences to draw upon when it was time to begin at my other calling, public education. Which was good, because learning to teach was complicated enough that if I hadn’t already propelled myself from a trainwreck of a haircutter and a mediocre chemical technician, to a fairly good haircutter and an excellent chemical technician, I never would have believed that I could become a great teacher, or hell…even just survive. So there, it gave me faith.
More striking though, were the stories of the women who owned the salon where I spent the majority of my full-time career, Rizos Salon in Denton, TX. Like Helena Rubinstein and Elizabeth Arden (who I barely know anything about at the moment, but got plans for!) my former bosses and dear friends, Techy, Yolanda, and Maria, are women who immigrated to the U.S. and sought out economic opportunities. After training and working in an upscale salon, the three decided to open their own salon in 1993 in a rented retail space. Through-back breaking work (trust me), superior skills, and dedication they were able to expand their business over the years, first with the addition of a beautiful, talented, young employee (me), then by purchasing and expanding their building and thus their business. I won’t pretend to know the extent of their financial success, but I did see them partner to support one another, raise their children, buy homes and other commodities, sometimes solely through the proceeds of the salon. The business they created provided financial support for all four of us and at various times, other employees as well, and I presume, continues to do so today. Additionally, Rizos Salon was a friendly place that often provided a community space for the many females who gathered there to wait (and wait) for us to do their hair. Finally, it was a place that attracted, for various reasons, other Spanish speakers seeking beauty services, including but not limited to those with a limited proficiency in English. In this way, it also was partially a support system for the Latino community of the area whose money in turn supported the three Latina owners of Rizos. Yes, all that, in a “just” a salon.
I have no idea why it took me so long to see both the profound examples of beauty culture as empowerment in story of Rizos and the story of myself since it seems pretty clear. This strand of my blog will be dedicated to telling the story of the women who were economically empowered by beauty culture. To start with: Madam CJ Walker, Annie Turnbo Malone, Helena Rubenstein, Elizabeth Arden, Mary Kay Ash and the women who sold her products, along with the Avon Ladies. It is dedicated to the women of Rizos Salon and Betty O’Bannon, the cosmetology teacher of South Grand Prairie High School’s Vocational Education Department while I studied there from 1991-1993, a woman who like myself, chose to be a beauty culturist and a teacher.
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