86 COSMOPOLITAN SEPTEMBER 2017 FOR MORE GREAT STORIES, VISIT COSMO.INPhotographs:LIZ GREGGcries a colleague as he catches sight
of my outfit. To show me exactly what
he means, he then spends the next
two minutes frantically searching
for an image on his computer to
demonstrate his point. Finally, he
pulls up an image of a pony wearing
three shades of pink. ‘It’s you!’ He
stabs his finger at the screen, peals
of laughter echoing around the
newsroom I work in.
I look at the screen, then down at
my outfit. He is correct. The triptych
of garments I’m wearing are the exact
same colours as My Little Pony. My
bell-sleeved jumper, metallic skirt
and Adidas Gazelles are all varying
shades of what the world has come to
call ‘millennial pink’.
This is the first time I’ve worn any
colour in over 15 years. Instead, at
27 years of age, my wardrobe is a
calm, composed sea of inky navy,
corporate grey, lots of black and the
odd white T-shirt. At a push, I might
consider a splash of pastel blue, but
that’s as far as it goes. These shades
have come to reflect my identity:
smart, sensible, ‘grown-up’. It is a“‘IT’S LIKE HAVING MY
LITTLE PONY
IN THE OFFICE...’It’s become the colour embraced by an entire
generation of hard-working young men and
women. But does ‘millennial pink’ fit into a
corporate landscape? Political journalist
Radhika Sanghani finds out.PINK
POWER
something was very wrong. While
I looked like the ‘tweenage’ girl I
was, everyone else looked like the
epitome of sophistication. There they
were, in tiny black dresses, silver
strappy tops and tight black trousers
with matching halter-necks. There
was no colour in sight. Their outfits
screamed grown-up glamour, while
mine—a pink so intense, I couldn’t
even retreat into the background,
looked woefully childish.
Later that night, I cried in the way
that only pre-pubescent girls can, and
vowed that was it; I would never, ever
get it so wrong again. From then on,world devoid of colour—and thus,
one I feel safe in. Pink? On me?
You’ve got to be joking...
It all started at my friend Aashna’s
12th birthday party—it was 2002.
She was having a disco party, the first
one I’d ever been to. I’d begged my
mother to buy me a new outfit, and
we thought we’d found the perfect
one: a knee-length denim skirt with
an inbuilt studded belt, black sandals,
and the pièce-de-résistance—a vivid
pink off-the-shoulder top with
purple sparkles.
The minute I arrived at the disco,
I realised with growing horror thatreport