The dyeing culture

"You should wear the shirt you wore last Tuesday," a female colleague suggested helpfully when I announced that I had a completely informal meeting slated with the head of an organisation who could potentially offer me a job.

"Hmm! You mean the purple one?"

"You don't have a purple shirt."

"I think I know my wardrobe better than you!"

"You think you do, but you don't. The purple shirt you are talking about is actually cinnabar."

"I am telling you I don't go into stores asking for cinnabar shirts with white stripes."

"Well, you got one any way. And the stripes aren't white, they are beige. But you look good in it."

"Nah! I think I'll wear the blue shirt and a pair of jeans ufffd I do have a blue shirt, don't I"

I decided to do some research, convinced that most of the above mentioned hues were pigments of her overactive imagination. What did I discover? That Kieslowski would have had a colossal body of work if only he had explored his options more strenuously.

But, more importantly I finally realised that perhaps I was suffering from achromatopsia. I had had this feeling for some time, but it was only now that I suspected that things were pretty serious and some drastic steps were needed.

I approached some of the biggest names in ophthalmology in the city, but all of them pooh-poohed my fears, saying I was perfectly alright and had no colour-vision deficiency. How could I make them understand my sense of inadequacy when I came across as one of the more gifted arbiters in this department?

"I am thinking of colouring them," said a friend of mine running his hands through his voluminous locks. "Any suggestions?"

"Alizarin," I said bitterly, casting an envious glance at the thick vegetation (don't get me wrong, I have a full head of hair).

"Err, really? I was thinking red?"

"Alizarin."

"Well ufffd how about some streaks to go with it?"

"Wisteria," I said, with an air of finality.

"Wisteria! Really... Boy you are good at this! But are you sure?"

"Yeah man. Women dig that combo."