\n<\/p>\n
Eventually, I made peace with my lot. After all, there are worse things than being a Winter. Mosquitoes, for instance.<\/p>\n
Once I started dressing like a main character from a Disney On Ice production of Frozen, things improved. My skin looked less sallow. My eyes stood out. I received compliments from strangers who did not appear to be drunk. People started saying things like, \u201cYou look great,\u201d which, for an over-caffeinated journalist, usually means, \u201cYou look conscious.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then came the power trip. I started silently judging others. \u201cThat man\u2019s obviously an Autumn,\u201d I\u2019d think, \u201cand yet he dares to wear lime.\u201d High on chromatic superiority, I felt a charitable sense of pity towards all the poor souls trapped in the wrong season, walking assaults on the human retina.<\/p>\n
This, I realised, is how dictatorships start.<\/p>\n
And so, I learned that colour analysis, while sounding like modern witchcraft, possesses a certain daft charm. It provides the illusion of order in a universe otherwise committed to chaos. Follow these rules, it says, and you will look like Song Hye-kyo.\u00a0<\/p>\n
In fact, it is less about fashion and more about existential comfort and immutable identity. It tells you that deep down, you are a specific type of person, and that person looks terrible in mustard.<\/p>\n
In the end, it\u2019s strangely comforting. Because now, whenever I face life\u2019s uncertainties \u2013 mortgage rates, microplastics, social faux pas \u2013 I can take solace in one immutable truth: At least my undertones are cool.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n