FASHION
Forced Androgyny amongst Black Models
By: Chioma Gregoire Edited by: Eleanor Unsworth
In today’s fashion landscape, androgyny is often praised as the epitome of modernity, a rejection of rigid gender binaries and a celebration of fluidity. Runway shows, editorial spreads, and brand campaigns all signal a shift toward inclusivity, where aesthetic freedom is framed as progress. Within this movement, androgyny is represented as a radical form of self-expression. But for many Black models, this supposed freedom feels more like a restriction. Rather than being one of many stylistic options, androgyny seems to become the only acceptable mode of presentation. Whereas white models are permitted a full spectrum of gendered styling from ultra-feminine to masculine and everything in between, Black models are more likely to be cast and styled only when their appearance aligns with a neutral, ambiguous aesthetic. This is not simply a matter of fashion preference; it reflects a larger trend of selective inclusivity, where diversity is allowed only within narrow, often racialized constraints. When androgyny is imposed rather than chosen, it becomes a tool not of liberation, but of control. The fashion industry's push for androgyny, though progressive on the surface, too often replicates the very structures it claims to disrupt. In the case of Black models, it reinforces long-standing racial and gender biases, particularly the discomfort society has long held toward Black femininity and masculinity.
The fashion industry's depiction of Black models definitely does not exist in a vacuum. It is built on a long legacy of aesthetic policing rooted in colonialism, respectability politics, and Eurocentric beauty standards. Historically, Black bodies have been styled, scrutinized, and repackaged to conform to ideals that center whiteness as the default and Blackness as deviation. This legacy has manifested overtly and covertly, from the exclusion of Black women in major beauty campaigns to the forced adoption of aesthetics that dull their identity and expression—for instance, when Vogue Magazine was criticized for digitally altering Lupita Nyong’o’s natural hair on a magazine cover in 2017, effectively erasing a core part of her identity.
As Madeline Martin-Seaver argues in Erasure and Assertion in Body Aesthetics, the politics of aesthetic assimilation have long demanded a kind of invisibility from Black women, particularly in professional and public spaces. She explains, “Respectability politics guided Black women toward blandness and erasure as necessary, so their bodies [became] as inconspicuous and as sexually innocuous as possible.” This drive for neutrality was not just about fashion; it was about maintaining survival in spaces that otherwise rendered Black femininity threatening. Sociologist Nicole R. Fleetwood takes this further by explaining how Black women have historically been “rendered invisible as subject, and yet hypervisible as abject.” This contradictory framing, simultaneously omnipresent and erased, creates a paradigm where Black models are rarely allowed the same freedom of self-expression as their white counterparts. They are instead expected to neutralize their presence, opting for aesthetics that are palatable to the white gaze.
These dynamics are shaped by enduring stereotypes that continue to define how Black femininity and masculinity are received. The Jezebel, Mammy, and Sapphire archetypes have historically dictated how Black beauty can be received—either hypersexualized or completely desexualized, rarely including grey areas. These tropes inform the fashion industry's discomfort with the full range of Black gender expression, reinforcing the idea that Black models are only “safe” when their appearance cannot be read through the lens of conventional femininity or masculinity. Enter misogynoir, a term coined by Moya Bailey to describe the “specific hatred, dislike, distrust, and prejudice directed toward Black women.” As Janice Gassam Asare notes in Forbes, misogynoir operates at the intersection of race and gender, uniquely affecting how Black women are perceived in both mainstream culture and professional industries like fashion. This intersectional bias is why expressions of femininity by Black women are often ridiculed, downplayed, or erased entirely, while the same aesthetics are celebrated on others. Together, these forces make the fashion industry's embrace of androgyny a double-edged sword. For Black models, it rarely signals liberation. Instead, it often replicates the same erasure cloaked in the language of progress.
Although androgyny is marketed as a progressive ideal in fashion, it is selectively applied in ways that reveal persistent racial double standards. White models are celebrated for their ability to oscillate between extremes—hyper-feminine glamour in one campaign, grunge minimalism in the next. They are granted stylistic versatility, seen as canvases for high-concept aesthetics. Think of Harry Styles’ Vogue Cover in 2017. Black models, by contrast, are often only visible when styled in an edgy or gender-neutral mold. As highlighted by Madison Lynn in her article, The Erasure of Androgynous Style in Fashion Media, androgynous fashion is often framed as a power play—“to adopt androgynous dress is to gain power under the dominant patriarchal discourses that shape the fashion panopticon.” But that power is unequally distributed. When Black models embrace traditionally feminine styling, it is often dismissed or ignored; when they align with androgyny, it is framed not as a choice but an expectation. Nowhere is this more evident than in the treatment of Black hair, a frequent battleground in the aesthetic politics of fashion.
As reported by Vogue Business, hairstylist Isaac Poleon notes that Black models are expected to fit a limited range of approved styles: “straight back braids, or single braids of a certain length and thickness, or a really large Afro or a really short Afro.” These choices aren’t celebrated for their uniqueness; they are standard requirements. Meanwhile, white models are allowed to experiment, playing with textures, styles, and personas (controversial take but Alex Consani). Yet, Black representation continues to be filtered through white-led aesthetics that rely on curated, sanitized versions of Black identity. This imposed neutrality leads to tokenism: Black models are often only booked repeatedly when they embody a very narrow form of beauty that aligns with white industry's comfort zone.
A model interviewed by RUSSH Magazine noted the shift: “Now my hair is fashionable, as are Black people. We are in every High Fashion campaign, every ad. My new agent is constantly getting castings for me.” Yet this “visibility” comes with new constraints, one where Black beauty is trending, but only under terms defined by others. It’s important to acknowledge that androgyny can be powerful and affirming for many Black models. The issue isn’t androgyny itself, it's the lack of agency in its application. When Black models are consistently styled to appear desexualized or gender-ambiguous without the option to embody hyper-femininity, softness, or extravagance, the aesthetic becomes a cage, not a canvas.
While the fashion industry continues to tout androgyny as a symbol of progress and inclusivity, its selective application, particularly toward Black models, exposes a more troubling reality. Rather than offering freedom of expression, androgyny too often becomes a narrow aesthetic mold to which Black models are expected to conform, one that erases the full spectrum of Black beauty, femininity, and masculinity. Inclusivity shouldn’t come at the cost of self-expression.
True progress in fashion means affording all models the autonomy to define their own image, not just those who already fit within a palatable mold. Black models deserve the same access to hyper-femininity, softness, flamboyance, and subtlety that white models move through without question. They deserve to be seen as whole, not just as edgy and mysterious, not just as strong or “cool,” but everything in between. To move forward, the industry must do more than cast Black faces, it must amplify Black agency. This means rethinking casting practices, broadening beauty standards, and empowering Black stylists, creatives, and models to lead the conversation. Barber Nat Bury put it best: “If you want us to be represented, let us represent ourselves.” Let Black models speak and express themselves. And most importantly, let them choose.
