'Fresh' is the new 'fair'

Pakistan's obsession with emulating whiteness

When a relative told me about a new Pakistani makeup kit for minimalist daily wear, I was all ears. I was still hunting for the perfect concealer - one that would deftly hide the dark circles under my eyes. The dark circles are genetic, a common trait of many South Asian women that only deepens as we age. You’d think it would be simple to find the right shade of concealer in 2023, at a time when we can see more skin tones reflected in the beauty industry- but no. Big brands may carry shades from the deepest browns to the palest whites, but the undertones are for Black skin, Mediterranean skin and Latin American skin. Despite being one of the largest visible minority groups in North America, the biggest brands have yet to offer shades with the right undertones (think warm, yellow) for South Asians’ unique skin tones.

So back to that Pakistani makeup kit, you can see why I was intrigued. Makeup designed by us, for us? It sounded like I hit the jackpot.

I had one worry though, will I find a shade that actually matches my skin tone in a country so fixated on emulating whiteness? I did find the perfect shade for me, but it took a strong arm, and the help of my cousin, to convince the makeup artist at the store that it was the right one.

I wish I fought for my skin tone when I got married in Pakistan more than a decade earlier.

Not so Fair & Lovely

When I was young, Fair & Lovely was an incredibly popular skin whitening cream. Commercials for the cream featured the hottest Bollywood stars from Shakrukh Khan to Priyanka Chopra.

Picture this: A girl wants to impress a boy, but her skin is so dark (think "brown face”) he doesn’t notice her. In comes Fair & Lovely to the rescue. Within days her skin is several shades lighter, she is practically glowing, and the boy finally notices her. This obvious, in-your-face assertion that white skin equals beauty and fortune is commonplace in South Asia. When boys look for brides, they want a gori larki (white, fair-skinned girl), but it doesn’t stop with bachelors — their mothers want this as well.

Colonialism has left deep wounds in South Asia, and one of them is this anti-Black obsession with whiteness and a culture of colourism that continues to harm generations of girls and women. Skin lightening products like creams packed with dangerous chemicals that promise results, and routine skin bleaching, were common practice in Pakistan when I was a teenager. I’m sure they still are in many parts of the country.

I remember my mom buying me Fair & Lovely when I was young. I don’t begrudge her this, it was just the world we lived in, and I didn’t question it either. I had dark skin, so it had to be fixed according to 90’s South Asian beauty standards. I was perpetually tanned by the desert sun, so much so that I was perplexed by how pale I became during my first winter in Canada. It was like the warm brown glow had been drained from my skin. I need the sun to feel like myself.

I should note that Fair & Lovely rebranded a few years ago to challenge these harmful stereotypes - it is now called Glow & Lovely, but all that does it replace the word, not the intended result, which is lighter, whiter skin.

I know I am not a dark-skinned person in a global context, but consume any media in Pakistan and you will think I am.

Driving around Lahore, you’ll see billboards featuring stick-thin models with milky white skin and long, straight Black hair - the ideal Pakistani woman.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that when I got married more than a decade ago, my make-up artist and photographer had the same ideal in mind, this skinny, long-haired gori dhulan (white bride) with rosy pink cheeks. I was skinny, check, but I didn’t have long hair (I wore extensions) or fair skin.

I was 23, naive, and getting married in a country that I didn’t feel comfortable in even though it was my birthplace and where all my relatives lived. On the day of my reception, I walked into the beauty salon with my own foundation in hand but the makeup artist refused to use it. She caked my face with foundation one shade too light. OK, this is OK, I thought. I can live with this.

Then, hours later, with drying henna on my hands and a newly painted face, I was starving and felt like a porcelain doll. I scarfed down chicken McNuggets in the car ride over to the photographer’s studio.

It was here, when I was posing for cheesy photos with my husband that the unthinkable was about to happen. The photographer whitewashed me in my wedding photos. Of course I didn’t realize this until months later, when the wedding photo proofs arrived and I was all the way back in Canada.

Not only was my skin lightened to make me look as white as my actually white husband, parts of my face - like my angular nose, a feature I love - were softened.

*cringe*

My daydreams of enlarging some of these photos to memorialize this special moment were dashed. You won’t see my wedding photos anywhere in my house. I refuse to put them up because they are of a person who doesn’t look like me, who isn’t me.

I wish I fought harder back then, but I know better now. I know what I want and I know what I need. So a few weeks ago, when I was buying makeup in Lahore and saw the shade, fourth in a set of six shades, called “creme” on my face, I could see it was all wrong: Like a smear of mayonnaise on my milky tea skin.

The makeup artist who put it on me insisted the lighter shade made me look ‘fresh,’ I was confused. What am I missing in the new lingo, here? My cousin leaned over and whispered in my ear, “‘Fresh’ is the new ‘fair',’ Anam apa.”

Ah, just like the ‘glow’ in Glow & Lovely, ‘fresh’ is the new word white supremacy is hiding behind in Pakistan.

I asked for the next shade, a darker hue called “honey.” The makeup artist was not impressed, but he obliged. This one was perfect. This shade made me look fresh in every real sense of the word - as in, it hid my dark circles so I looked well-rested. But it was the fifth shade out of six shades that went from light to dark. How am I the fifth shade? Me? Someone who is the colour of milky tea?

Also, who in Pakistan is wearing the lightest shade called “porcelain?” Who in Pakistan is so white they glow? Please.

I almost burst into laughter when I heard the “porcelain” kit was sold out. Then I realized how sad it must be, to live in a world where the culture’s deeply-rooted colourism dictates how you must look to be desirable.

To be so obsessed with chasing whiteness that you are willing to paint your own skin to achieve it.

This photo is from our nikah. The make up and photos were done by different people from the reception photos. I love this photo because I look like myself.

Related reading:

• “Documentary: The colonial history of colourism” in Dawn https://www.dawn.com/news/1692081/documentary-the-colonial-history-of-colourism

• “Uniliver renames Fair & Lovely skin cream after backlash” in BBC

  https://www.bbc.com/news/business-53178088