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.
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