Pink (the colour) is a lot like Justin Bieber (the, ekhem, singer.)
Little girls love it. Slightly bigger girls hate it with a passion. Even bigger girls sometimes come back to “loving” it ironically. Boys of all ages avoid it like the plague. For inexplicable reasons, it is linked with homosexuality. Not in a good way, though. That’s for rainbow and Lady Gaga.
However, unlike Bieber, pink does nothing to deserve its infamy. It doesn’t hurt your ears with super lame lyrics sung in a nails-on-blackboard voice. It didn’t release an autobiography at 16. It doesn’t insult Anne Frank. And I’ve never heard it compare itself to Kurt Cobain or claim that rape happens for a reason.
It would be easy to blame the colour’s bad reputation on the associations we have with it: weakness. Fakeness. Tackiness. Immaturity. Barbie. Paris Hilton. But what are these if not completely arbitrary? Consider this passage from the trade publication Earnshaw’s Infants’ Department from June 1918 (that’s not even a century ago!):
[T]he generally accepted rule is pink for the boy and blue for the girl. The reason is that pink being a more decided and stronger color is more suitable for the boy; while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl.
See, pink is strong. Pink is fierce. Pink is fun. Pink is for everyone.
For me, what pink stands for is happiness – not of the shit-deep Joy-of-Life type that only Paulo Coelho seems to have accomplished (too bad his books are crap), but the shameless gaiety of someone smiling in the tube. Have you ever noticed how a person dressed in head-to-toe black and looking miserable causes no reaction,* but anyone over 12 who’s wearing pink and grinning must be a creep, or high, or incredibly stupid?
And so what. Fuck it. Pink is the colour equivalent to showing the world the middle finger. Except it’s friendly and positive. Hey, does that make any sense?
*Unless you’re female, that is. No, I will not smile for you, bastard.