I actually love raising Sephora tweens

I have just one thing to say to the influx of tweens and teens—including two I personally birthed—who are taking over Sephora:

Wait for me!

I know it seems odd to be shopping for bronzer alongside a tween who is still learning long division in school. But here we are. There’s already been plenty of vocal deliberation about this precocious obsession with make-up and skin care. Much of the commentary has been disapproving; lots of tsk-tsking, eye rolling and finger wagging from physicians, psychologists and parents alike. I certainly agree with many of the valid arguments—dermatological, social, emotional—and parental vigilance is necessary. But I also share the excitement and have an acute understanding of how this trend cultivates a sense of belonging as a recovering make-up denier with a complexion complex. 

I’m not surprised that my tween daughters, aged 12 and 9, are not immune to this prepubescent cosmetics craze. I encouraged them to play with make-up from an early age, beginning with aggressively fruit-scented lip glosses that were a prerequisite for their Disney princesses era. My vanity table was always welcome to them for swipes of a new lipstick or spritzes of perfume. Recently, they’ve graduated to make-up meccas like Sephora and Ulta, where cosmetics are an essential part of girlhood with its intoxicating pull of pretty packaging, satisfying ritual and self-discovery.

Raising my girls with a permissive make-up policy differs greatly from my own youth. I was expressly prohibited from wearing make-up until I was 18 and in college. Growing up with strict, Korean parents, I was told I didn’t need it and that make-up would only diminish or cheapen my natural features. Deeply embedded in there was likely some semblance of a compliment (I think?), but that tended to get lost in the overarching message that young girls who wore make-up looked trashy or slutty. Wearing make-up was seen as an inevitable gateway to what my family considered even more sinister adolescent activity: “Are you just trying to impress boys?” If it’s not already evident, I also wasn’t allowed to date until I was 18.

When the notion of wearing make-up wasn’t being weaponized in this way, it was unfairly racialized, too. The ‘injustice’ of not being allowed to wear make-up was moot when I was introduced to the concept that it was maybe never meant for people who looked like me to begin with. I distinctly remember a time when I was (secretly, of course) playing beauty salon with my white friend Holly. We eagerly rummaged through her bright pink Caboodle of mascaras, blushes and lipsticks. A shimmery, electric blue eyeshadow caught our attention, and we excitedly swept it across our eyelids. When we stepped back to admire our handiwork in her gold scalloped mirror, I was shocked at my reflection.

The blue shadow looked subtle and stunning on Holly, peeking out every time she blinked. But I looked ridiculous and positively clownish. It was shocking to see how the same electric blue eye shadow could look so drastically different on us. That was when I realized that, like many other East Asians, I didn’t have a double eyelid crease to break up the conspicuous block of blue on my face. I wouldn’t learn the official term for this particular feature—monolid eyes—until I was in my twenties. In that moment, I was devastated that make-up was doing the opposite of what I implicitly knew it was supposed to do: make me pretty, not more different. Even at the age of nine, I understood the basic expectation that make-up was meant to do the same thing for every girl. But this unfortunate inauguration was only highlighting my ‘otherness’ that I had never fully realized before. I came to be wary of make-up’s ability to expose me in this way.

But in the last few years, I’ve warmed up to the cosmetics boom and its broader reach. My perspective on make-up has evolved as I evolved—especially into motherhood and middle age. You may expect that at this stage of my life, make-up is merely a corrective or even a curative—hardly the stuff of light-hearted, low-stakes fun. But for the first time, I’m embracing make-up in a new time, place and context that is neither cautionary nor exclusionary.

Going into Sephora is an enjoyable experience that makes me feel like a kid in a candy-colored cosmetics store. I am greeted by large posters of Asian models who likely never apologized for the shape of their eyes. The discourse has changed (“Make the most of your monolids!”) and products are vastly improved (thank you Shiseido eyelash curler). It’s impossible to miss the gleaming displays of Korean skin care that is taking over the world. 

I manage to stay in Mom Mode when my daughters are with me. I veto certain things (no glycolic acid unless you have a mortgage), validate others (ooh, tinted sunscreen) and veer away from our field trip devolving into an exorbitant free-for-all shopping haul that rightfully earns the disdain of many. In fact, there are plenty of times we leave the store empty-handed (unless there’s a great eyelash serum and then good luck prying it from my hands). Decisions about make-up are thoughtfully tailored to each daughter’s age, preferences and needs. I’m learning, they’re learning. I see them in their budding adolescence and my girls see me differently, too. 

Because what’s happening at Sephora isn’t just skin deep for women of color. For us, it’s a cultural education, as I leverage our trips as helpful entry points for my daughters to understand their identity—half Korean, half-white—as well as mine in my full Korean identity. In fact, make-up and skin care has been one of the most effective ways for my kids to see me as a real, racialized person. 

Studies have shown that children recognize racial differences early; some insist as early as six months old. But parents seem to be exempt from that notion for a while longer. For most of their kids’ childhood, parents are faceless beings hardly distinguishable from one another. As a mom, I embarrass them regularly, I replenish their snacks, I tackle their impossible hair knots—in my kids’ eyes, this makes me largely indistinguishable from the many other (predominantly white) moms of their friends. The first hints of my Korean-ness were offered to my young kids through other peoples’ interactions with me: when people mispronounced my name or aggressively demanded to know where I’m really from. My daughters found each exchange confusing and odd because I had not yet been seen by them in this cultural context. But make-up and skin care bring race—theirs, mine, ours—home in a real, resonant way.

My girls have double eyelid creases and generous lashes, thanks to their dad. They will never have to negotiate as hard as I do to get liquid eyeliner to cooperate. But they also have some of my features, such as a similar complexion. Whether it’s at Sephora or at my vanity table, the process of putting on make-up is inherently visual, tactile and sensory. They feel the stickiness of the snail mucin that glides on my skin, as I explain how my complexion—and theirs—is classified as warm or olive, depending on variables. They see me contouring my low nose bridge and looking for ways to augment my wider bone structure. I never would have anticipated that this new pastime of make-up could honor the profound ritual of mothers and daughters—of seeing ourselves in each other’s faces. 

Ever a flashpoint for criticism, the world of make-up was clearly never the confidence-building opportunity for me growing up. This is the education and experience I wish I had had. 

So, among the throng of tweens overtaking your local cosmetics store, there may be people like me. Late bloomers who are finding and accepting themselves in an area that was once perceived as off limits to them. And many of us are here with our daughters at this playground for discovery, curiosity, creativity, joy and individuality. Because at its core, beauty and self-acceptance are truly ageless.