September 2nd, 2009 | 
Author: My intrepid adventures in color, however, don’t extend to my wardrobe; I am almost entirely dependent on black to get me through all the seasons. The most liberties I take with wearing color revolve around cosmetics. No matter how sluggish, exhausted, or bloated I feel, a sweep of saturated red lipstick (MAC Dubonnet: “a deepened claret in an amplified crème finish”) instantly makes me presentable, and on some days, even feel invincible. At the nail salon I eschew the pale pinks and beiges for some weird and lovely shade that sings out to me, like Dior Black Sequins: ebony pearl in a certain light, sparkly gunmetal in another.
Prince found his soul mate in the color purple. I wish I had such an allegiance, an affinity for one hue, something that could be my trademark. But I’ve probably been infatuated with every color in the spectrum at some point or another, with the exception of peach; I blame a detestable bridesmaid dress that was foisted on me in 1989, a fashion tragedy I have yet to completely recover from. (Note to world: Friends shouldn’t ever ask friends to wear shrimp-colored taffeta.)
Whenever anyone asks me what my favorite color is, I’m stumped. Last week it was the pale celery green of a pillow cover I spotted in the Ikea catalog. Today it’s aubergine, the color of a Roland Mouretknockoff I recently bought, a dress so brilliantly designed that it acts like one giant Spanx, holding everything in. Tomorrow it will be a new shade, a new association.
As a child, the singular excitement of a big box of crayons was beyond compare, the myriad gradations in shades, the limitless possibilities. As we go through life, we take less risk with color and fall into predictable patterns. I say, take some chances again—try that brazen auburn hair dye, or that vibrant teal wallpaper. After all, what is there to lose? For all its transformative power, perhaps ultimately, the best thing about color is that you can always change it. ri
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