There are shades of buff, nude and lots of blue, ... I was thinking of eye-shadow colors and blush and lip colors. There's peach, pink -- lots of blue, actually -- and lots of gray.

Occasionally, I'll wear glitter or blue eye shadow.

But we are running out of colors," said Mr. Violet, intervening.
"That cannot be the case," said Mr. white. "There are an infinite number of colors."
"But there are not that many names," said Miss Taupe.
"That is not possible. A color must have a name."
"We can find only one hundred and three names for green before the color becomes noticeably either blue or yellow," said Miss Crimson.
"But the shades are endless!"
"Nevertheless, the names are not."
"This is a problem that must be solved. Add it to the list, Miss Brown. We must name very possible shade.

The word itself has another color. It’s not a word with any resonance, although the e was once pronounced. There is only the bump now between b and l, the relief at the end, the whew. It hasn’t the sly turn which crimson takes halfway through, yellow’s deceptive jelly, or the rolled-down sound in brown. It hasn’t violet’s rapid sexual shudder or like a rough road the irregularity of ultramarine, the low puddle in mauve like a pancake covered in cream, the disapproving purse to pink, the assertive brevity of red, the whine of green.

Forty Shades of Blue

When they burst through, a small chain of colorful mountains appeared below them. The range spanned from the deepest, darkest blue to the shiniest, brightest white and everything in between. The foot of each mountain was a single color– midnight blue, mossy green, burnt umber – and this color, whatever it was, was the darkest shade it could be. As the color moved up the mountains, the shade grew lighter and lighter until it reached the peak. The peaks were glorious pastels, shimmering with only the faintest pigment.