Pink To Make The Boys Fuck Off

Pink to make the boys Fuck Off

By Scarlett Curtis

This story of defiance begins with a £12.99 zip up hoodie from Marks and Spencers. This was not just an ordinary hoodie, it was incredibly special. Jersey on the outside, fleece on the inside, this hoodie was formulated from the perfect mix of cotton and polyester. It was a cosy outer layer in the chilly winter months but not too thick to be unwearable during a cool English summer. It’s hardy fibres refused to shrink, even in the hottest of washes and its cinched in elasticised sleeves hugged the wrist in the most delightful manner. This hoodie was perfect and between the ages of 14 to 19 it was the only item of clothing I wore.

Before you begin questioning both my sanity (which was at the time, unhinged) and my hygiene (also not the best), let me reassure you that I owned five of these hoodies to allow each to be washed before it’s next wear. Two in black (chic, elegant, dinner party attire), one in grey (a more casual yet still refined looked), two in navy (a classic wardrobe staple, day to night fare). Each of the five hoodies were 10 sizes too big for me and drowned my teenage frame in fabric giving me the stylish look of a girl who has just escaped from a hostage situation and grabbed the nearest item of clothing on her way out.

I refer to this long past era of life as “the age of the hoodie” and much like the great wars of history it was brought about by the most horrible of circumstances. At fourteen I had an operation on my back that left me with crippling chronic pain for the next three years. I was unable to walk, had to leave school and in just one day my life was transformed from a fun Judy Blume novel about friendship to a sad Judy Blume novel about a sick girl. This story, however, is not about being sick, it’s about clothes. It’s about the ways in which I have used clothes through my life as a disguise, a battleground and a form of defiance.

 During the age of the hoodie I experienced both internal and topical pain. Not only did my bones and nerves ache but the softest of touches on my back felt like the cold, hard slice of a knife. Wearing a tight top felt akin to slipping an electric fence over my torso and the very idea of a bra strap was out of the question. My only sartorial options were tent or bin bag and the M&S hoodie seemed to be the perfect solution.

 The age of the hoodie ended as abruptly as it begin. By 19 I was out of pain and faced with a life that felt like it was in tatters and a wardrobe that was full of mini-skirts I hadn’t worn since I was 13 and hoodies that were 10 sizes too big. I was a certified expert at dressing for doctors appointments, surgeries and months in rehab but I had no idea how to dress for a party, university, a date or even a coffee shop. I had spent the past few years dressing to try and disappear. I drowned my broken body in fabric and I needed a new approach to clothing. The world outside of the bedroom I’d spent the past five years in terrified me. It was too loud, too big and filled with monsters while I felt quiet, small and broken.

 I suppose at this point I could have gone one of two ways; sunk further into the hoodie-life or turned in the opposite direction. I chose the latter. One month before I started university I burned the hoodies in my metal trash can and decided to start dressing like a fairy princess.

 My transformation from hostage girl to Glinda the good witch was neither easy nor subtle. Without telling a soul I booked myself into a salon in central London and emerged seven hours later with hair the colour of candy floss. I set my ASOS filters to PINK and CHEAP and decked myself out with a new closet of tutus, statement knits and flower crowns. My style icons were Peppa Pig, the pink one from Balamory and raspberry flavoured foam shrimp. It took time, effort, hair loss and every penny I had to my name but within a year my transformation was complete. My nails were acrylic, my eyelashes were plastic and my closet looked like the dressing up box of a five year old.

Many a friend and family member questioned my tooth-aching aesthetic choices. While most people spend their early 20’s discovering their style I seemed to have discovered my style at a child’s fancy dress party and never looked back. My grandma repeatedly told me I would never get a boyfriend if I insisted on looking like a stick of candy floss and a friend of my father’s once kindly advised that I’d never be taken seriously in the workplace if I didn’t “stop with all this pink stuff”. When asked about my rose-hued appearance I only ever had one answer: “pink makes me happy and I want to be happy”.

Pink did make me happy. It still does make me happy. It is the colour of burnt skin and blossom. It is the much maligned gender signifier that the patriarchy deemed to be a shade of weakness and frivolity. Pink, we are told, represents shameful femininity. To be a grownup, messy, complex womxn wearing PINK is an act of defiance in itself.

I’m 25 now and my era of pink is coming to an end. My hair remains tinted with rose and I wear very few outfits that don’t include a touch of magenta but the iron-clad pink costumes I became so comfortable in are becoming a thing of the past. Pink will always be my favourite colour but with time and therapy I’m also able to acknowledge more of the truth behind my five year commitment to dressing like a Disney princess. At a time when I was terrified to be myself, wearing a costume every day meant I didn’t have to be. I had been hurt by men and so I dressed in a way that made them know they were not welcome. I had been flung into adulthood when I was far too young and so I refused to play by the grown ups rules. I wore pink and I wore tutus because I wanted the world of boys, adults and pain to know that I was done with it, had never wanted anything to do with it in the first place.  The oversized black hoodie I had hoped would be my invisibility cloak had done nothing to protect me and so I ran in the other direction. I ran so far in the other direction that I still find pieces of glitter lining the bottoms of my drawers. I ran towards safety and found it in a suit of armour the colour of bubblegum.