BODEGA BEAUTY

How Bodegas Became Cultural Centers for Beauty

To unknowing passersby, it's a convenience store. To New York City dwellers, it's a bodega. And for writer Xochitl Gonzalez, it's a beauty supply store, runway, and most significantly, a place to connect with her community and culture. 
Side profile of Rai in the bodega store seen through the window.

Growing up in New York in the '80s and '90s, the most beautiful girls — the flyest ones, that I wanted to be — were the girls who gave fresh face — caritas lindas. The ones from the block who looked like God and their mothers had just made them perfect. With nothing more than a white tee, cutoffs, fresh kicks, and a smile, they'd emerge for a session of stoop-sitting like goddesses. Hair pulled back with the part just so; baby hairs laid flawless; pretty, long nails; and soft, glowing skin warmed from summer trips to Coney Island or Orchard Beach. And the most perfect shine on their lips. By our local beauty standards, the supermodels in magazines had nothing on them. Because there was no smoky eye or high-fashion hairdo that amplified natural beauty the
way these fresh-faced girls did, with nothing but some basics from the local bodega. 

Of course, there were girls in every neighborhood who were good with makeup. Usually the girls whose moms made extra cash selling Skin So Soft and other Avon products, or the ones who went crazy in the Wet n Wild section of the local Duane Reade and would use their little siblings as guinea pigs. These girls had their charms, their own style, but nobody turned heads like those natural beauties. And, normally, they did so en route to the first place any young kid in New York is
allowed to go sans parent: the bodega. 

CASSANDRA MAYELA Mayela grew up in Venezuela before moving to New York City, where she now works as a model. She's also an artist specializing in textiles she creates from her home in Brooklyn. Having lived there for eight years, Mayela's been a witness to the transformation of her community. "Your block can change every three months," she says. "But I don't think [the bodegas] are going anywhere." In fact, she's maintained a special bond with one particular shop owner: "[They'll] be like, 'Yeah, pay me tomorrow, or never. It's fine.'"
— JENNET JUSU 


Getting sent to "the store" as a kid was an occasion. It was less about what you were going to buy there: a quarter water for you, tampons, and a romance novel for your tia, baby powder for anybody who might need it. It wasn't about the purchase, it was a moment of independence. And for the adult who sent you on the errand, it was a safe way to test boundaries, because if you talked to the wrong boy or got a little sassy or — God forbid — got caught trying to steal a bag of chips or some Bazooka, the bodeguero would most definitely tell your mother or your wela or whoever it was they knew you belonged to.

And they definitely knew. As a teenager discovering the power of your own beauty on the streets of New York, the bodega was, again, about more than a purchase. It was a chance to see and be seen. To clock that cute dude who was always outside with his boys; to hear about what
party or club was popping off. As a young woman living on my own for the first time, my bodega became a place of accountability: If I didn’t come for my coffee one day, they'd notice and ask where I'd been. Once, I stumbled in for ramen after a happy hour gone too long and my bodeguero watched out till he saw I had gotten safely down the block and into my house.

New Yorkers love their bodegas, even if they aren't completely in agreement about what differentiates these magical places from your regular deli. But, in communities of color, and Latinx neighborhoods especially, bodegas are hives of neighborhood activity. This is largely because a true bodega serves a multitude of purposes: household convenience store, to-go eatery, coffee shop, low-stakes casino, ethnic grocery, dive bar, religious-supplies provider, and, above all, community center. If you ask 20 different New Yorkers what makes a bodega, you'll get 20 different answers. It must have a cat. They must sell lotto. They must run numbers. They must be Latinx owned. They must be Caribbean. They must make hot food. 

DONOVAN GREEN Growing up in Pittsburgh, Green says she was surrounded only by white and Black people. When the model, who has Antiguan heritage, moved to New York City, her world opened up:
"Being here, with a huge Puerto Rican, Dominican, Hispanic community is amazing. It's beautiful to see that."
Her local bodega on the Lower East Side is one place where she's enjoyed meeting people from different
backgrounds, despite the gentrification she believes has changed the fabric of the neighborhood. Through it all, she says, the bodega has remained a constant. "My beauty supply [store], that I usually go to for everything, picks and chooses when they want to close," Donovan says. "But the bodega is usually 24 hours, so if I ever need anything, they're always there." —J.J.


The one universal that everyone can agree on is this: It can't be a bodega without "regulars." And by that, I don't mean frequent patrons who might come in daily for silent exchanges of money for cat food or coffee. No. I'm talking about people for whom stopping in the bodega is a part of their day. It's a place to see their neighbors, to talk politics or even just pass on bochinche with the bodeguero behind the counter. A true bodega is, at least for certain times of the day, a local social center. Community is part of its DNA. 

Although the bodega is now as much a part of New York as the Yankees or the MetroCard, few realize its roots are uniquely Nuyorican, that distinct variation on Puerto Rican culture that developed as part of the mass migration from the island to New York City. Puerto Ricans have been moving to New York since they were made U.S. citizens during World War I. But it was during the '40s and '50s, with diminishing agricultural work on the island and more employment opportunities in urban factories, that the Puerto Rican population vastly expanded. As did the proliferation of bodegas that stocked familiar tropical foods not easily found in American supermarkets.

Small in size, the bodega was for the new migrant a supermarket for the soul. The deli counter offered cut meats, but, sometimes, prepared dishes from "home." The aisles stocked groceries, but also votive candles, Agua de Florida, medicine-cabinet staples, cleaning supplies, and even, sometimes, a record section of Latin music. In short, the bodega didn't carry everything, but
it carried everything one needed to keep a good Puerto Rican home in this new place. And it offered community. According to Caribbean history scholar Carlos Sanabria in the book Bodega: A Cornerstone of Puerto Rican Barrios, the bodega became a place where recent arrivals could find news about apartments for rent or available work. And, because they were largely owner-operated, family-run enterprises, many bodegueros would allow customers to shop on credit. But what made the bodega special and unique, and still does to this day, is that it's more than a place for commerce. It is a place where knowing your neighbors and the children of your neighbors matters. It is a place vibrant with life, much like the island of Puerto Rico itself.

RAI As a kid in Brazil, single-moniker model Rai recalls visiting small markets that supplied her family's needs, though they weren't called bodegas. "While my mom was cooking, if she needed anything, I could just go downstairs and get [it]," she says. Her new neighborhood offers the same conveniences: "New York has this
energy where you can be anything here and you can get anything you want." Rai cherishes the bond she has
with the owners of her local bodega — and their adorable cat, Lucky, seen here — and considers the shop a safe space. "I have a relationship with the people that work [here]," she says. "I know almost everybody's name." —J.J.


Even when the bodega began to service clientele without any roots in Borikén, they retained that sense of welcome. In the '80s and '90s — the era when I grew up — 61 percent of Latinx New Yorkers were Puerto Rican. That's about 12 percent of all New Yorkers. The bodega was everywhere, because we were everywhere. And our culture — our music, our dances, our groceries— wove its way into urban life. Whether New York salsa, ballroom culture, or aspects of the dance, music, and graffiti that became the global phenomenon that is hip-hop, the Nuyorican experience and aesthetic were part of all of that, even as we no longer are as much a part of New York. Just as gentrification has forced many true bodegas to close, it has forced many Nuyoricans to leave. Leave for Long Island, for Florida, for Pennsylvania. Someplace cheaper, someplace more affordable. A secondary diaspora, if you will. The bodega endures, but its roots have been long forgotten by most.

Which brings me back to the caritas lindas and their simple take on beauty. Puerto Rican beauty, like all Caribbean beauty, is more about seeming to be "put together" than it is about overt glamour. Yes, we love our hoops, we love our jewelry, we love our lipstick, but at its base, our beauty ethos isn't about masking anything. Just enhancing that with which you were born. Doing the most with what you've got, even when you don't got a lot. So it's no surprise that many of the beauty routines passed from mother to daughter — and then, living side by side in the barrios of New York with Dominicanas and Cubanas — from woman to woman, were often rooted in
nature. The simple products that one could find at the local bodega. 

When Cardi B revealed that her hair routine relied, in part, on avocados, mayonnaise, black castor oil, and a rice water rinse, the internet went crazy. But not the women I knew, whose mothers made them "marinate" in front of the TV wearing some variation of that mask to grow their manes thick and strong and shiny. Coconut oil was the first undereye cream I ever used. It was one of my Dominican homegirls who taught me to put garlic in my clear polish to help my nails grow. From face moisturizer to brow tamer to lip gloss to cheekbone highlighter — don't even get me started on all the ways to amplify your beauty with Vaseline. The bodega was where you could grab a toothbrush for your teeth, a toothbrush for your baby hairs, and another one for keeping your kicks clean, plus the cleaner (with bleach) to scrub them. 

When I reminisce about those fresh-faced girls and how I wanted to be like that when I got older, I can't help but marvel over the (likely) thousands of dollars of products in my makeup bag and medicine cabinet. Pencils to fill in my recovering '90s eyebrows, powders to contour my face for Zooms, creams to brighten spots. It's not that I don’t appreciate these products or even swear by some of them. But it does make me think: Yes, the bodega as I knew it is turning into a memory, but that simple beauty I loved as a girl doesn't have to.

Sittings editor: Tchesmeni Leonard. 
Hair and makeup: Roy Liu. 
Locations: Salt & Pepper Deli & Grill, N.Y. Grill & Deli, L Stop Gourmet Deli.

This story originally appeared in the June/July 2022 issue of Allure. Learn how to subscribe here. 


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