When I was thirteen, I decided that black was my color. The decision was born in a fit of contrariness, since black was not an acceptable color for a Southern girl to wear at a private, Southern Baptist school. I was still a dark blonde then. At fifteen I became a redhead, and that cemented the decision. Pale skin and red hair against black material worked for me. Eventually, in my early 20s, I branched out into a few approved redhead colors: browns, navys, grays, deep and olive greens. Occasionally, later, some light blues. But never more than that. More would be distasteful.

When we lunched last spring, Cristina and I got onto the subject, and she told me that she had been the same way until she’d passed a year in Minnesota. Six months of gray in the landscape does make one yearn for some hues, and now she is a tasteful font of color. Hmmmm, I said. Understandable. But I doubt it’ll happen to me. I don’t do color.

Then, sometime in the late summer, I wore a rose-hued shirt and got a ton of compliments. And a few weeks later I thought about the impending winter, and I went out and bought a bunch of shirts — rich blues, more rose, melon, brighter greens. Also more white. I’ve been wearing them happily for the past month.

And now I own a yellow wool coat. She wore lemon/to color in the cold gray night. Actually, it’s more of a buttercup or butterscotch, and it’s completely Charlotte’s fault. She found it when we were out last week, and then I had to put it in the cart and push it around the store and think about it. Because, you know, it was yellow. But it looked great, and I bought it and took it home and got all sorts of compliments from Mister Husband. (Who is, in fact, a very smart man.) I called home on Sunday and mentioned it to Mom, and she said, “Really? I don’t think you’ve ever picked out anything yellow since you were old enough to pick out your own clothes.” And she’s right, I haven’t.

But apparently I do now.