Choosing to smell of something other than ourselves, and then perhaps in time coming to view that fragrance as ‘our’ smell — essence of us — is an odd business. I can’t wear Mitsouko because it smells of my great-aunt, for instance, which is at least relatively straightforward, but I also can’t wear Angel by Thierry Mugler because it smells of the Nineties and desperation; or L’Eau D’Issey because it smells of makeupless women in oversized clothing, stranded balefully in minimalist interiors; or anything with tuberose, tragically, because it powerfully reminds me of having morning sickness while wearing Fracas (‘my’ scent, until suddenly it became my kryptonite — so disgusting, now).
I judge people on how they smell, in a wildly snobbish way: anything too clean and fresh gets them dismissed as either simpletons or Americans, who like things to smell of laundry or cake; anything too recherché and ‘interesting’ seems crudely attention-seeking; anything too loud is too loud; but then anything too quiet is mimsy and annoying. So many scents are awful, which is why airport beauty halls smell of toilet cleaner. Sometimes the perfumes people wear make me chortle to myself, because they’re so at odds with that person’s external presentation: the jolly, ruddy-cheeked lady, stout-shoed, who favours the dirty-knickers notes of musk or ambergris; the sultry bombshell who smells of English gardens after rain rather than, say, opulent, damp, tropical gardenia; the gritty bloke who perhaps isn’t aware that he smells of 18th-century aristocrat. It’s all to do with sex, of course (you can always tell people who hate sex by the scent they wear. As a broad rule, people who really like sex tend to be unperfumed — sweat and skin, innit — though there are exceptions).
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in