I am a sucker for any soap, perfumey type of shop or stand. My husband affectionately calls it "stinky stuff." He knows that I will inevitably have to go in, drawn like a moth to a flame. My encounters with product and scent are as engrained in my memory as my dating history, perhaps even more so, as there are certainly guys whose names I have forgotten, but I never forget a scent.
Looking back now, I think that my romance with scent first began with a whiff of my mother's Shalimar as we headed into New York City for my father's office Christmas party. I was no more than five years old, and we were all dressed up. My mother looked and smelled wonderful. I can still feel the touch of her fur collar and smell the perfume. Then, too, there was my grandmother's Jean Naté After Bath Splash and Shower-to-Shower powder, early indoctrination into smelling fresh and clean.
My sophomore year of high school I took a trip to Paris, and as I wandered the streets with my friends, I happened into a perfumery. The delicate and spicy smell of Opium hooked me instantly. I felt so adult tipping the bottle, removing the stopper, and dabbing it onto my pulse points. My boyfriend loved it too. He would tease me as I would unfold my turtleneck over my nose. "Taking a hit," he called it. And so I was.
A year later I was an exchange student in Paraguay. I spoke no Spanish, but my host father had a very attractive, younger brother who spoke English. On one of my first days in the country, they took me to a perfume shop. The brother escorted me in and had me pick out any perfume. I was so embarrassed trying to make a selection with him there, and quickly rushed the process picking out a bottle of Gucci – light and floral. I never really fell for that scent, but I did have a crush on him. My fantasy was dashed when the long awaited kiss came to fruition one evening on a rooftop in Asunción. I was shocked to discover this very handsome man’s kiss left me cold. Upon my return to the U.S., it was my grandmother who ended up falling for the perfume, and it became a favorite gift for me to give her.
My junior year of college I discovered The Body Shop. My roommate told me of the fabulous new store that had opened up on Wisconsin Avenue. It was a British chain, and their products had not been tested on animals. In those early years they even accepted their empty bottles back for recycling.
As I walked into the store, I was transported into a whole new world. Shopping there was an experience – very clean design, bottles of different sizes but uniform shape, green labels and black tops, translucent, with a hint of pretty colors shining through. You see these bottles everywhere now, but at the time it was novel. I walked by all of the shelves, wide-eyed, reading labels, sniffing the testers with great anticipation. I fell in love with Passion Fruit Cleansing Gel, Seaweed Shampoo, and Banana Conditioner. I topped it all off with Peppermint Foot Lotion. I stared at the men’s section longing for a boyfriend secure enough in his masculinity to allow me to appreciate these subtler, soapy jewels.
My boyfriend at the time was a Drakkar Noir type and he preferred me in the heady scent of Poison, sickly sweet and buttery. At the time, I preferred Anne Klein II, a strong but clear scent. I tried to fit myself into his vision of an ideal woman – seductive, yet submissive, sweet and tamed. He kept a small bottle of Drakkar Noir in his glove compartment and put on deodorant before bed, wanting to overpower with the artificial perfumes. A year later he and I were no longer a couple, and as devastating as it was at the time, it’s a huge relief that the relationship ended. At my essence I wanted passion fruit, not poison.
