"Wow!" said Mary Ellen at church on Sunday. "Your eyes exactly match your jacket."
The jacket in question is sort of a sage green corduroy. I don't think Mary Ellen was including the corduroy aspect in her analysis. Then again, you never know, I guess.
"Really?" I said. "That's sort of cool. My eyes change colour, actually. Usually they're blue or grey."
"Ah," said her husband knowingly. "You have chameleon eyes."
Furthermore, although this was not included in our discussion that morning, my hair is of a shade typically described in Western literature as "mousy." It is that sort of unimpressive, nondescript brown which most white women would rather disguise with a tragic hair-dying accident than display in its original hue.
It was surprising to me, therefore, to discover that most of my Middle Eastern and South Asian friends in London experienced tragic hair-dying accidents in an attempt to get their hair just this colour. One day, in my first year living there, three Persian women, after oohing and ahhing over my hair, came to the consensus that its colour was "olive." To them, the term "olive" described the colour of the wood of the tree, and not of its fruit. I liked my hair better after that.
Perhaps the next time I set up a profile on another dating website, I shall announce that I have olive hair and chameleon eyes. Do you think it'll help?