About the Colour Pink

Sally had always loved the colour Pink. The walls in her room were blush Pink; her pillows were coral and raspberry, and most of her clothes were too, in fact, even her hair ties and favourite toys were all varying shades of Pink.

On her sixth birthday, the cake had Pink frosting on it, and her many friends - all girls, of course - were invited to the party. It was the age of sleepovers, and princesses, and ice lollies before lunch. And she lived too, just as a Princess would, basking in the adoration of her parents, who, in her imagination, were the King and Queen of their very own fairytale, already at the ‘happily ever after’ stage of life.

In short, she had been a very happy little girl.

Then her mother moved out.

She couldn’t take Sally with her to her new home, she said, but she loved her all the same, and she always would. At first, Sally believed her. Why wouldn’t she?

Of course, she couldn’t understand why her mother had chosen this new, strange man over her Papa. To her, her father was the finest king in all the land, and this new man was neither handsomer nor kinder, nor in any way better than her dad. But it had been explained to her, that fairytales did not always come true. And even when they did, it wasn’t always the case that they would remain so, and therefore, it was okay for her parents to grow apart. She could understand that, couldn’t she?

And so on her mother’s wedding day, she had been the flower girl, clad in a Pink tulle dress, scattering rose petals along the aisle. The bridesmaids wore the same soft Pink as her, and even the groomsmen had faint Pink pocket squares. Her mother was dressed in a poofy white gown, and her new husband looked at her just like Sally’s father used to. Her mother was a beautiful bride, and it was a beautiful wedding, and Sally, too, felt beautiful in Pink and had a smashing time. She stuffed herself with cake, danced with the other kids, and at around midnight, she fell asleep on two chairs that someone pushed together in the corner.

Then, she was put in a car and taken home to her father. Papa was still up, waiting for his Little Princess, carrying her into the house in his arms. His breath smelled the same way the wedding guests’ did after they toasted to the health of the newlyweds. They were drinking to celebrate the new couple, someone told her. “Were you celebrating too, Papa?” She asked drowsily.

“No, Sweetheart. I was drinking because I’m sad,” her father said, stroking her hair. “It was a stupid thing to do, don’t mind me.”

Sally nodded. But the more she thought about it, the more she felt like a little Pink Monster instead of a Princess. Her father’s eyes were red-rimmed, his voice shaky just like hers was after crying, and now that she thought about it, he seemed more tired ever since her mother had left. “Do you miss Mommy?”

“Sometimes I do, yes.”

That night, as she fell asleep listening to faint sobs from the other room, she decided to forego the colour Pink.

By the time she was in the seventh grade, she had completely cleansed herself of Pink. Her new favourite colour was Green, and not a trace of Pink could be found anywhere in her room or her wardrobe. She had learned to despise the colour she once so adored, and with time passing, she became increasingly more convinced that she had been right to do so. The girls who were obsessed with the colour Pink, but didn’t learn to detest it, grew up to be obsessed with makeup and boys. They did not care for school, nor books, nor board games or any other respectable pastime. They were whiny, and gossipy, and sniggery and mean; and always had some or the other excuse in PE class.

That year, on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday, Red joined her list of colours non grata. A female classmate pulled her aside to tell her about the stain on her pants. She escorted her to the loo and gave her a pad with Pink wrapping paper. Sal - that was Sally’s new nickname - was completely mortified, but the girl had been, to her surprise, kind and patient throughout the whole ordeal. She had explained to her how to use the pad, given Sal her spare pants, and taken her to the nurse’s office for painkillers.

That afternoon, when she got home, her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. It was like the past years were nothing but a bad dream. And yet, Papa looked out of place, standing in a corner of his own home, with stiff shoulders and awkwardly crossed arms. Even though Sal sometimes wished for them to be three again, now that her mother was here, something did not feel right.

They explained to her that the nurse had called and they had all seen it best that her mother should come and explain everything; help her ‘become a woman’, so to speak. Sally then expressed, in no uncertain terms, that she had no desire to become such a thing, as she was very much happy with remaining just as she had been right that point, thank you. Furthermore, even if by some bad streak of luck she absolutely had to go through this ordeal, and there was really nothing to be done, well, even then, she did not wish her mother near whilst she did so.

“Sal, Sweetheart, don’t be so angry with your mother,” her father said that night, when it was just the two of them again. “I have forgiven her a long time ago, and so should you. It does you no credit to harbour all these bad feelings towards her.”

Reconciliation with Pink came on slowly. It started with the girl from Tuesday becoming her friend. Rose - as ironically her name was - had been very persistent in winning Sal over, and once she did, she proved herself again and again to be the best of friends Sal could have wished for. Rose was smart and liked books, and board games too. And even though she also liked talking about boys and sometimes made up excuses in PE class, Sal was very happy that Rose was in her life. They shared their secrets, and Rose taught her how to do makeup, and made her laugh so hard that sometimes her drink came back through her nose.

With knowing Rose came knowing Rose’s family. She had two rambunctious younger brothers (twins), and a sweet baby sister who reminded Sal of herself back when she still liked Pink. Even though she was the girliest little girl known to man, and left a trace of annoyingly hard-to-get-rid-of sparkles everywhere she went, it was impossible not to adore her.

Rose’s mother was a sweet, plump woman who took Sal under her maternal wing from the first moment they met. She was nothing like Sal’s mother: her house was in a constant state of merry disarray, her hair a bird’s nest atop her head, and kids running wild. But she had a good sense of humour for life, and her kitchen always smelt of some baked good or another. All things considered, Rose’s family seemed very happy together, and - even though she had been shy at first - it did Sal much good to be included in the way that she was.

Sal spent many Sundays with the Jennings’. It didn’t matter whether she and Rose helped Mrs Jennings cook, or let Rose’s little sister give them a ‘makeover’ using old lipstick and facepaint, or whether they chased the twins around the garden with a hose; Sal always had a blast.

Rose’s mother was the one who took them dress shopping and helped them get ready before their first school formal in the ninth grade, while the two dads promised to threaten any dates they might have. Mr Jennings and Sal’s Papa became fast friends after that, and from then on, Sal’s father was included in Sunday night dinners at the Jennings’. Things were looking up for Sal, and by the time the two girls were all packed up for college, she wasn’t angry at the world anymore. Sal became an even-tempered and quite happy young woman, Mrs Jennings had said, of whom her father must be very proud. In fact, her father told Sal himself that he was. In short, Pink didn’t seem so terrible a colour anymore.

At university, Sal and Rose made many new friends - boys and girls alike - who all called Sal Sally. She decided not to correct them: she was over hating her own name, and realised, that she had no reason to disapprove of other girls her age.

Then one day, as many girls do, Sally met a boy. He made her want to wear a skirt, and curl her hair, and be Pink again. She tried blush for the first time in her life, bought a mauve T-Shirt, and painted her nails a pinkish nude. She let the boy hold doors for her, and pay for the taxi, and every week she looked forward to the flowers he brought her. And even though in the end he turned out not to be her Prince, Sally was glad to have rediscovered her love for Pink.

Because ‘Pink’ were the tulips on her desk in the spring, and the girlfriends who took her out for coffee or the cinema, and the ones who got her out of ditches, and off her high horses. ‘Pink’ was the clicking of her heels when she felt confident, and the smell of her freshly washed hair. ‘Pink’ was Rose, and Rose’s mother and sister, and even the strangers in the ladies’ room, who shared tampons and life advice on a night out. ‘Pink’ was not perfect, but it didn’t have to be. It was beautiful regardless.

In time, Sally made up with her mother, and years later, when she was sure that she had found her Prince, she sent her mother a wedding invitation in a manila envelope. And when Sally was pregnant with her own daughter, the pillows in the nursery were yellow, the clothes lilac, periwinkle and blue, and the toys were all the colours of the rainbow.

But the walls, Sally had painted a soft shade of Pink.