I used to think packaging was just about looking pretty on a shelf.
Then I started paying attention to what actually happens when someone with dark skin tries to find foundation in a drugstore, or when a person with a disability can’t open a supposedly ‘luxury’ jar because the designer prioritized aesthetics over function. Turns out, the visual strategy behind inclusive beauty packaging isn’t just about slapping diverse faces on boxes—it’s a whole ecosystem of decisions about color psychology, accessibility standards, cultural symbolism, and honestly, whether brands actually give a damn about the people they claim to serve. The cosmetics industry generates roughly $500 billion annually, give or take, and yet for decades the default visual language was narrow: white models, pastel palettes, delicate serif fonts that screamed ‘this isn’t for you’ to anyone outside a very specific demographic. Now we’re seeing shifts—some genuine, some performative—and the difference shows up in everything from Pantone choices to braille dots on eyeshadow compacts.
Here’s the thing about color strategy in inclusive packaging: it’s trickier than you’d expect. Fenty Beauty basically rewrote the rulebook in 2017 with that iconic lineup of 40 foundation shades photographed against a clean white background, each bottle’s label color-coded to match the actual product inside. Simple, right? But before that, most brands used aspirational imagery—soft focus, heavily retouched models—that told you nothing about whether shade ‘Ivory’ would actually match your undertone. The visual honesty of showing the product itself, unfiltered, was revolutionary in a weird way. I’ve seen brands try to replicate this and fail spectacularly because they don’t understand the underlying principle: transparency builds trust with communities that have been lied to for generations about what ‘nude’ or ‘natural’ means.
The Typography Problem That No One Talks About Enough
Font choices carry more weight than most designers admit. Sans-serif typefaces test better with younger, diverse focus groups because they feel democratic—no flourishes, no gatekeeping. But I guess some heritage brands struggle with this because their entire identity is wrapped up in that fancy script that their founder used in 1947 or whatever. There’s actual research from the Journal of Consumer Psychology showing that ornate typography can trigger feelings of exclusion in first-generation consumers who associate it with spaces where they weren’t historically welcome. Meanwhile, brands like The Ordinary went maximalist-minimal with clinical labeling that looks like pharmacy stock, and it resonated across demographics precisely because it refused to play the aspiration game. The text is small, dense, almost aggressively unsexy—and that became the inclusive move, weirdly enough.
Tactile Design and the Accessibility Gap We Keep Ignoring
Wait—maybe I’m exhausted by this—but why are we still designing pump bottles that require significant hand strength when arthritis affects millions of potential customers? Inclusive visual strategy has to extend beyond what you see to how you interact with the object. Procter & Gamble’s Herbal Essences bottles have those ridge patterns that aren’t just decorative; they’re tactile indicators for low-vision users to differentiate shampoo from conditioner in the shower. That’s visual strategy working in three dimensions. But here’s where it gets messy: true accessibility features often look ‘less premium’ by conventional standards, so brands face this tension between appearing high-end and being actually usable. Some solve it better than others—Glossier’s tube packaging has good grip texture while maintaining their minimalist aesthetic, whereas luxury brands still churn out glass jars that are gorgeous and completely impractical for anyone with motor control issues or just, you know, wet hands.
Cultural Symbolism Embedded in Package Architecture Itself
The shape of the container tells a story before you even read the label.
Korean beauty brands pioneered this understanding that package architecture communicates cultural values—those cushion compacts aren’t just functional, they reference traditional lacquerware aesthetics and collectibility culture in ways that feel inclusive to Asian consumers while intriguing everyone else. Compare that to Western prestige brands that still default to rectangular glass as the only signifier of quality. I used to think the recent shift toward refillable systems was purely environmental, but it’s also about economic inclusion—making the initial purchase accessible and the refill affordable changes who can participate in the brand ecosystem. Kjaer Weis did this early with their metal compacts; the upfront cost is high but the refills are reasonable, and visually the packaging looks substantial enough to justify the investment. It’s a different value proposition than disposable plastic, and it speaks to consumers who want longevity over novelty. Though honestly, some refill systems are so complicated they defeat the purpose—I’m looking at you, brands with twelve-step disassembly processes that require YouTube tutorials.
The visual cues that signal ‘this is for you’ are both universal and deeply specific, which is the paradox inclusive design has to navigate without collapsing into bland universality or tokenistic representation.
