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Why I Am Closing Ami Colé My beauty brand offered Black women shades they couldn’t find elsewhere. Why wasn’t that enough?
By Diarrha N'Diaye-Mbaye, founder of the beauty brand Ami Colé.
In 1989, my Senegalese mother and father worked together to purchase a hair salon on 125th Street in the heart of Harlem. At one of the first African braiding salons in the country, my mother, Aminata “Ami” Colé, wrapped my baby self tight on her back as she stood eight to 12 hours a day, making her clients feel beautiful. As I learned to talk — both in my native tongue, Wolof, from my “fake aunties,” and in English, from my mother’s loyal customers — the underlying lessons I heard and internalized were about community, womanhood, and beauty. As she finished up with a customer, my mother would ask, “Do you like?” She wasn’t satisfied until she could tell the answer from a person’s smile.
Decades later, in that same salon, I hosted events for the beauty brand I named after my mother. Ami Colé launched in May 2021 to a devoted, excited audience of Black and brown women who felt seen and celebrated by what we offered. At first, the brand offered skin tints in shades they couldn’t find elsewhere and started a lip-oil craze that still carries through to this day. As I built my business, I stayed true to what I knew: community and quality. I looked most at how to lend real expertise to the formulas I wanted to make.
As we grew, I met people who told me Ami Colé was their first foundation match, or their go-to glow, or their clean-girl staple. I met a girl in Paris who pulled out her empty Lip Treatment Oil at Charles de Gaulle Airport. My best friend was there or else I wouldn’t have believed it had happened — I was so happy. Eventually, though, that was no longer enough.
ADVERTISEMENTSCROLL TO CONTINUE WITH CONTENT
After nearly four beautiful soul-stretching years, Ami Colé will close this September. This decision was so hard for me — the business bears my mother’s name and, as I built it, my daughter’s name, too. But after looking at every option, it became clear that continuing in this current market wasn’t sustainable.
For as long as I can remember, I have been studying the gaps in beauty products for all women, especially those with Black and brown skin. What was missing? I started doing my friends’ makeup in college, sourcing my artistry with trips to CVS to buy L’Oréal HIP eye-shadow palettes. I turned my dorm room into a beauty studio to make sure girls looked and felt good, just as my mom had shown me how to do. I remember being so emotional and frustrated when shades flashed too ashy, too red, or too yellow on my friends’ cheeks — masking the beauty I saw versus enhancing it.
When I saw signs for a Sephora store opening at the mall, I didn’t know how I’d balance a job with school full time, but I knew it had to be mine. I was one of two Black people to join the opening team. I was so elated that it took me six months to realize I had been placed in the far back of the store selling fragrance, though my passion was skin care, hair care, and makeup. Perfume was the only thing I didn’t care about as much. I wondered later on, Was this a coincidence? But the discount meant I could do even better makeup on my friends.
After I graduated, I returned to New York. I ran the gamut of industry jobs and internships, experiencing the racism that characterized the industry in the 2010s in every role I landed. I turned to the comments on the beauty site Into the Gloss as an outlet for my frustrations — not to vent but to share my obsessions with shade ranges and formulas. I had fervent conversations about Kelly Rowland’s installment of “The Top Shelf,” a feature where luminaries showed the depths of their bathroom cabinets and where I bought my cleansers as a result. It showed me not only that this was a science but the place that beauty could have in people’s everyday lives.
Back and forth in the comments, I debated with strangers: “What kind of products were good for oily-combination skin?” It was suddenly clear to me that what I cared about, other people did, too. How cathartic and thrilling to talk to strangers about products, techniques, and, just as my mother had done at her salon, finding deeper connections through our experiences with beauty. (Okay, we also vented. Who would make actually good makeup for us?)
As I worked at my various day jobs for big cosmetics and media companies, I thought, Why not pitch myself for my own Into the Gloss feature? It worked. Soon after, I got an email about a top-secret project that I was invited to help develop. I still believe my skin informed the first line of Glossier skin tints for the shade Rich. (Many others would tell you this too.)
At the height of Glossier, I was recruited to join its product-development team. The job wove together my decades of experience in social-media marketing, my dedication to figuring out the complexities of what made specific formulas work, and my deep love of making other people look good. I was the staff lookout, in terms of what people’s needs and ambitions and worries were, in terms of the products they wore. I sifted through the most-buried-possible Reddit threads and Instagram comments to unearth every answer I could to two big questions: “What should we create next?” and “What do we want the audience to feel?” I knew that they were not just “our audience” but people.
By this point in 2018, my millennial-pink dreams became more black-and-white. The job that I was offered as an inroad to help with development and marketing turned into a situation in which I lacked mentorship and support. The impression I got from higher-ups was “Don’t worry! Just come into the company and we’ll figure it out.” Obviously, that’s not what happened. It was crushing.
Despite this experience, I was still committed to finding a way to get people the products I dreamed would become a beloved part of their daily routines. In 2019, I found an answer in putting together ideas for the business that would become Ami Colé. I turned to social media to share the beginnings of this brand, surveying at least 400 women on their beauty rituals, product favorites, and the missing pieces in their routines. The responses, while varied, painted an easy picture of what I needed to do next. They said their complexions and self-images needed the formulas and vision I had to offer.
I knew that less than one percent of VC money went to Black founders — even less for solo founders. I had no idea how my vision would come to fruition, with my savings depleted and no financial support from my family, but I would use my black book of contacts, my Instagram page of 3,000 followers, and tenacity. And my credit card to pay for the labs where I mixed up my first products.
My first big outing was at a conference called Cosmoprof, to which I wore a pink suit in the Vegas heat and talked to everyone who would listen about my vision for more flattering products that felt modern and cute. After months of posting my progress on Instagram, I received an email from a fancy investor who later invested in the likes of Kim Kardashian and Gwyneth Paltrow.
I came to her Flatiron HQ with the concept, the business plan, the lab sample formulas, the 3-D renderings of the packaging, the brand guidebook, the organization chart, and the breakdown of the list of funds I’d need to bring this concept to life. “This is great. It’s exactly what the industry needs,” she said. I went home on a high, only to be ghosted. No email, no feedback, no next steps. Weeks later, I finally received a response from the investor: The sentiment was that, with no clear star power, it’s hard to think this could be a success given the “niche audience.” She called my vision for more inclusive shades “nondescript” and dismissed me. This would be the beginning of many noes I’d receive from potential investors in 2019. By my 150th pitch, I had begun to lose hope.
Then, in 2020, the world witnessed the video of George Floyd’s murder and rose up in sadness and protest. Within weeks of when the riots started, I received an influx of requests to bring my “deserving brand” to life. (Guess if the initial investor who shooed me away followed up on the same thread.) In general, all these follow-ups usually sounded like “You are the future. The world’s been waiting for a brand like this.” I was sped through a process that meant that, as far as I was told, I needed to seize on the money that was being pumped into my business. It was a dream come true, or so I thought — well, and yes, it actually was. Within months, I became one of 30 Black women to raise over $1 million for her start-up.
All that I was expected to do in return? Well, I’d have to figure it out myself.
On the summer day that Ami Colé had launched, my Instagram DMs, comments, and text messages were flooded. One stranger — another woman I talked to online about beauty over the years, now that I think of it — wrote, “I am buying every single thing, because this brand is ME.” Another person commented, “I could almost cry. I’m so excited to try this out. May Allah make this the best of the best for you. The humility, love and sincerity exudes through your work.” I fought tears. I lost that fight. We sold out of our first run of skin tints and lip oil in a month.
I had no coaches, no family money. Just those Instagram comments and my own momentum. Ami Colé continued to raise more capital from well-meaning investors, including the woman who had initially told me I wouldn’t succeed. We, all told, took home north of 80 awards for our tints and oils, including four Allure Best of Beauty awards and a spot on “Oprah’s Favorite Things” list. We were in the makeup bags of Nia Long, Kelly Rowland (full circle — my inspiration), Mindy Kaling, Hailey Bieber, and Martha Stewart. Better yet, we were on the shelves of the people whose needs matched what our products offered. I felt as if I could finally unclench my jaw. This was what I had always wanted.
To show investors we could turn the profit they were expecting, Ami Colé moved quickly onto the shelves of Sephora in 2022, starting with 270 doors and building to 600 doors nationwide within 16 months of the launch of the brand. I was so excited about the deal, but it meant new expectations to meet — on social media and in terms of sales. (Not from Sephora but from investors.)
I wanted to make the most of the opportunity, so I invested heavily in marketing and prayed. But I couldn’t compete with the deep pockets of corporate brands; at retail stores, prime shelf space comes at a price, and we couldn’t afford it. As we tried to grow, our sales wavered. We made operational decisions that felt necessary at the time — like scaling up production to meet potential demand — without truly knowing how the market would respond. One week we’d be completely sold out because an influencer mentioned us; the next, we’d be stuck with inventory we couldn’t move.
Instead of focusing on the healthy, sustainable future of the company and meeting the needs of our loyal fan base, I rode a temperamental wave of appraising investors — some of whom seemed to have an attitude toward equity and “betting big on inclusivity” that changed its tune a lot, to my ears, from what it sounded like in 2020.
Almost six years after Ami Colé first lived in my head — and four years after we officially launched — the world feels upside down. We’ve got this president, climbing tariffs, and marketing costs that are brutal for small brands like mine. And while my story isn’t unique, it still hurts to watch an industry preach inclusivity while remaining so unforgiving.
I’m proud of what we built — for the women we built it all for — even as I navigate the grief of letting go. To those who felt seen in our mission: Thank you. Thank you for letting me be part of your daily routines.
From Senegal to Harlem and beyond, we created something real. And while this chapter is ending, my work isn’t done. I still believe in beauty — at every level — and I’m looking forward to discovering what comes next.
The Cut is a Vox Media Network.
© 2025 Vox Media, LLC. All rights reserved.
Why I Am Closing Ami Colé My beauty brand offered Black women shades they couldn’t find elsewhere. Why wasn’t that enough?
By Diarrha N'Diaye-Mbaye, founder of the beauty brand Ami Colé.
In 1989, my Senegalese mother and father worked together to purchase a hair salon on 125th Street in the heart of Harlem. At one of the first African braiding salons in the country, my mother, Aminata “Ami” Colé, wrapped my baby self tight on her back as she stood eight to 12 hours a day, making her clients feel beautiful. As I learned to talk — both in my native tongue, Wolof, from my “fake aunties,” and in English, from my mother’s loyal customers — the underlying lessons I heard and internalized were about community, womanhood, and beauty. As she finished up with a customer, my mother would ask, “Do you like?” She wasn’t satisfied until she could tell the answer from a person’s smile.
Decades later, in that same salon, I hosted events for the beauty brand I named after my mother. Ami Colé launched in May 2021 to a devoted, excited audience of Black and brown women who felt seen and celebrated by what we offered. At first, the brand offered skin tints in shades they couldn’t find elsewhere and started a lip-oil craze that still carries through to this day. As I built my business, I stayed true to what I knew: community and quality. I looked most at how to lend real expertise to the formulas I wanted to make.
As we grew, I met people who told me Ami Colé was their first foundation match, or their go-to glow, or their clean-girl staple. I met a girl in Paris who pulled out her empty Lip Treatment Oil at Charles de Gaulle Airport. My best friend was there or else I wouldn’t have believed it had happened — I was so happy. Eventually, though, that was no longer enough.
ADVERTISEMENTSCROLL TO CONTINUE WITH CONTENT
After nearly four beautiful soul-stretching years, Ami Colé will close this September. This decision was so hard for me — the business bears my mother’s name and, as I built it, my daughter’s name, too. But after looking at every option, it became clear that continuing in this current market wasn’t sustainable.
For as long as I can remember, I have been studying the gaps in beauty products for all women, especially those with Black and brown skin. What was missing? I started doing my friends’ makeup in college, sourcing my artistry with trips to CVS to buy L’Oréal HIP eye-shadow palettes. I turned my dorm room into a beauty studio to make sure girls looked and felt good, just as my mom had shown me how to do. I remember being so emotional and frustrated when shades flashed too ashy, too red, or too yellow on my friends’ cheeks — masking the beauty I saw versus enhancing it.
When I saw signs for a Sephora store opening at the mall, I didn’t know how I’d balance a job with school full time, but I knew it had to be mine. I was one of two Black people to join the opening team. I was so elated that it took me six months to realize I had been placed in the far back of the store selling fragrance, though my passion was skin care, hair care, and makeup. Perfume was the only thing I didn’t care about as much. I wondered later on, Was this a coincidence? But the discount meant I could do even better makeup on my friends.
After I graduated, I returned to New York. I ran the gamut of industry jobs and internships, experiencing the racism that characterized the industry in the 2010s in every role I landed. I turned to the comments on the beauty site Into the Gloss as an outlet for my frustrations — not to vent but to share my obsessions with shade ranges and formulas. I had fervent conversations about Kelly Rowland’s installment of “The Top Shelf,” a feature where luminaries showed the depths of their bathroom cabinets and where I bought my cleansers as a result. It showed me not only that this was a science but the place that beauty could have in people’s everyday lives.
Back and forth in the comments, I debated with strangers: “What kind of products were good for oily-combination skin?” It was suddenly clear to me that what I cared about, other people did, too. How cathartic and thrilling to talk to strangers about products, techniques, and, just as my mother had done at her salon, finding deeper connections through our experiences with beauty. (Okay, we also vented. Who would make actually good makeup for us?)
As I worked at my various day jobs for big cosmetics and media companies, I thought, Why not pitch myself for my own Into the Gloss feature? It worked. Soon after, I got an email about a top-secret project that I was invited to help develop. I still believe my skin informed the first line of Glossier skin tints for the shade Rich. (Many others would tell you this too.)
At the height of Glossier, I was recruited to join its product-development team. The job wove together my decades of experience in social-media marketing, my dedication to figuring out the complexities of what made specific formulas work, and my deep love of making other people look good. I was the staff lookout, in terms of what people’s needs and ambitions and worries were, in terms of the products they wore. I sifted through the most-buried-possible Reddit threads and Instagram comments to unearth every answer I could to two big questions: “What should we create next?” and “What do we want the audience to feel?” I knew that they were not just “our audience” but people.
By this point in 2018, my millennial-pink dreams became more black-and-white. The job that I was offered as an inroad to help with development and marketing turned into a situation in which I lacked mentorship and support. The impression I got from higher-ups was “Don’t worry! Just come into the company and we’ll figure it out.” Obviously, that’s not what happened. It was crushing.
Despite this experience, I was still committed to finding a way to get people the products I dreamed would become a beloved part of their daily routines. In 2019, I found an answer in putting together ideas for the business that would become Ami Colé. I turned to social media to share the beginnings of this brand, surveying at least 400 women on their beauty rituals, product favorites, and the missing pieces in their routines. The responses, while varied, painted an easy picture of what I needed to do next. They said their complexions and self-images needed the formulas and vision I had to offer.
I knew that less than one percent of VC money went to Black founders — even less for solo founders. I had no idea how my vision would come to fruition, with my savings depleted and no financial support from my family, but I would use my black book of contacts, my Instagram page of 3,000 followers, and tenacity. And my credit card to pay for the labs where I mixed up my first products.
My first big outing was at a conference called Cosmoprof, to which I wore a pink suit in the Vegas heat and talked to everyone who would listen about my vision for more flattering products that felt modern and cute. After months of posting my progress on Instagram, I received an email from a fancy investor who later invested in the likes of Kim Kardashian and Gwyneth Paltrow.
I came to her Flatiron HQ with the concept, the business plan, the lab sample formulas, the 3-D renderings of the packaging, the brand guidebook, the organization chart, and the breakdown of the list of funds I’d need to bring this concept to life. “This is great. It’s exactly what the industry needs,” she said. I went home on a high, only to be ghosted. No email, no feedback, no next steps. Weeks later, I finally received a response from the investor: The sentiment was that, with no clear star power, it’s hard to think this could be a success given the “niche audience.” She called my vision for more inclusive shades “nondescript” and dismissed me. This would be the beginning of many noes I’d receive from potential investors in 2019. By my 150th pitch, I had begun to lose hope.
Then, in 2020, the world witnessed the video of George Floyd’s murder and rose up in sadness and protest. Within weeks of when the riots started, I received an influx of requests to bring my “deserving brand” to life. (Guess if the initial investor who shooed me away followed up on the same thread.) In general, all these follow-ups usually sounded like “You are the future. The world’s been waiting for a brand like this.” I was sped through a process that meant that, as far as I was told, I needed to seize on the money that was being pumped into my business. It was a dream come true, or so I thought — well, and yes, it actually was. Within months, I became one of 30 Black women to raise over $1 million for her start-up.
All that I was expected to do in return? Well, I’d have to figure it out myself.
On the summer day that Ami Colé had launched, my Instagram DMs, comments, and text messages were flooded. One stranger — another woman I talked to online about beauty over the years, now that I think of it — wrote, “I am buying every single thing, because this brand is ME.” Another person commented, “I could almost cry. I’m so excited to try this out. May Allah make this the best of the best for you. The humility, love and sincerity exudes through your work.” I fought tears. I lost that fight. We sold out of our first run of skin tints and lip oil in a month.
I had no coaches, no family money. Just those Instagram comments and my own momentum. Ami Colé continued to raise more capital from well-meaning investors, including the woman who had initially told me I wouldn’t succeed. We, all told, took home north of 80 awards for our tints and oils, including four Allure Best of Beauty awards and a spot on “Oprah’s Favorite Things” list. We were in the makeup bags of Nia Long, Kelly Rowland (full circle — my inspiration), Mindy Kaling, Hailey Bieber, and Martha Stewart. Better yet, we were on the shelves of the people whose needs matched what our products offered. I felt as if I could finally unclench my jaw. This was what I had always wanted.
To show investors we could turn the profit they were expecting, Ami Colé moved quickly onto the shelves of Sephora in 2022, starting with 270 doors and building to 600 doors nationwide within 16 months of the launch of the brand. I was so excited about the deal, but it meant new expectations to meet — on social media and in terms of sales. (Not from Sephora but from investors.)
I wanted to make the most of the opportunity, so I invested heavily in marketing and prayed. But I couldn’t compete with the deep pockets of corporate brands; at retail stores, prime shelf space comes at a price, and we couldn’t afford it. As we tried to grow, our sales wavered. We made operational decisions that felt necessary at the time — like scaling up production to meet potential demand — without truly knowing how the market would respond. One week we’d be completely sold out because an influencer mentioned us; the next, we’d be stuck with inventory we couldn’t move.
Instead of focusing on the healthy, sustainable future of the company and meeting the needs of our loyal fan base, I rode a temperamental wave of appraising investors — some of whom seemed to have an attitude toward equity and “betting big on inclusivity” that changed its tune a lot, to my ears, from what it sounded like in 2020.
Almost six years after Ami Colé first lived in my head — and four years after we officially launched — the world feels upside down. We’ve got this president, climbing tariffs, and marketing costs that are brutal for small brands like mine. And while my story isn’t unique, it still hurts to watch an industry preach inclusivity while remaining so unforgiving.
I’m proud of what we built — for the women we built it all for — even as I navigate the grief of letting go. To those who felt seen in our mission: Thank you. Thank you for letting me be part of your daily routines.
From Senegal to Harlem and beyond, we created something real. And while this chapter is ending, my work isn’t done. I still believe in beauty — at every level — and I’m looking forward to discovering what comes next.
The Cut is a Vox Media Network.
© 2025 Vox Media, LLC. All rights reserved.
Ami Colé Skin-Enhancing Lightweight & Blurring Foundation Stick
Ami Colé
Ami Colé Skin-Enhancing Lightweight & Blurring Foundation Stick
Foundation
$29.00
Sorry if I missed this elsewhere, but JVN and Inkey List are coming to Ulta
Also, see these browsing and immediately thought of you @caitbird
Women's Wear Daily announces Beauty of Joseon to launch at Sephora on July 17
online access on July 15
Reprinted at mymorningstar(dot)com
Huda Beauty returns to being one of the few full founder-led and independent companies after ending an 8-year partnership with private equity firm TSG Consumer Partners (as reported by BAZAAR Arabia). Go Huda go!
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