A few years ago I wandered through a large motorcycle store in search of a nice leather jacket. I wanted something classic. Simple, cafe-racer vibes, black or brown – no frills, literal or figurative. Easy, right?
At the back of the shop I found the (limited) women’s range and nearly threw up in my mouth. It’s no wonder these jackets were tucked away. Was that … an embroidered flower? Some flowing cursive script? Why, for the love of two-wheeled transportation everywhere, would I want pink on my motorbike jacket?
One of the Kevlar jackets had small pink flowers on a pocket. Another had bubblegum pink piping around the panels. The leather option had two strips of white running down from the shoulders. Or was it actually pale pink? Hard to tell through the rose mist blurring my vision.
My partner received my anti-pink rants with mild amusement, only to reveal later how closely he had been paying attention. For a birthday, he bought me a pair of steel-capped boots for use when our house resembles a worksite – ie, often. As I unwrapped the present to find a nightmare of pink laces, he quickly whipped out another small package from behind his back with a grin – some black laces to swap in. Phew.
But I needed a different size. A quick search of the major workwear stores showed just how deep this pink problem runs: pink-flecked laces, pink-checkered lining, pink heel pull tag, pink stitching, pink piping, a completely pink workboot. WHY?
The ridiculousness of having this one colour and shades thereof to denote “HARK, THIS BE A WOMAN” is beyond the power of my lady brain to comprehend. It can’t be for women so I have to assume it’s for men. To enable them to quickly pick out those requiring different treatment. A warning sign, like a poisonous frog with its bright spots signifying danger within.
The most enraging part of the pink-equals-woman agenda is that sometimes, when there are options, I actually want to choose the pink. And I am in fact partial to a flower. But I can’t now, can I?
