Of all our senses, smell is the one I’m pretty sure (judging by the panic and upset/depression I get with a blocked nose) I’d want to lose the least. If you’ve been reading this blog a while now, you’ll know I’m obsessed. And that I abhor anything that hints at duty-free. Or is akin to the stock market. More on that later.
I definitely cloak my descriptions in overblown adjectives, because, well, perfumed water is such an elusive beast. Sometimes you need a big cacophony to even get inside the (first) front door. Sometimes you need to invoke every gorgeous flower that ever was placed in a bottle. Because fragrance is ravishing whichever way you look at it. Whether it’s devoid of sex, a bit risqué, totally virginal or romantic, olfactory taste seems to be a matter of pure aesthetics. When I’m around a person who says “man it smells good in here,” I always want to offer up my wrists and sometimes my collarbone, so they know it’s me emanating something kinda wonderful, and not just the room. Olfactory vanity? Guilty as charged.
My dalliances with perfume are best described as flirty and (mostly) unfaithful, because I’m constantly on the lookout for that fantastical, otherworldly scent made flesh. I blame my mother. Partially. She’s been wearing Fracas, that masterpiece of heady tuberose, since I was a baby, and if you grow up around that kind of velvety lushness, a one dimensional buttery-soft imprint just doesn’t really cut it. Plus, for here’s the thing I’ve discovered: people who smell, who really sniff into life, are passionate purveyors of incandescent trails, and almost by definition, more interesting to talk to. Tapping into senses for something as quixotic and emotional as smell makes them mighty, mighty grand. I’ve had some of the best nights in the company of scent junkies. Like great foodies, you find yourself instantly hooked. And maybe even diving unwittingly into an unsuspecting neck.
source: cora kps