This fall, I briefly lost my sense of smell. Of course, it was due to COVID-19. In those few days, I slipped into a state of sensory numbness. I looked at the pad thai I ordered, unable to distinguish the flavors of lime or fish sauce, those aromas that remind me of my childhood. I shoved my nose into a bag of ginger tea that failed to evoke any scent. Some odors, I was happy to be rid of. Goodbye to the overflowing trash bin, no sorrow for the wet dog smell of the towel draped next to the heater. But mostly, the loss awakened an unexpected confusion of identity within me. I couldn’t even smell myself.
Who am I without the scent of lavender lingering in my sweat at the end of the day?
Who am I without the sweet smell of the leftovers of my daughter’s lunch, and the foul coffee remnants on myself? The absence of my own scent was disorienting, like Dorothy transitioning from the colored world to the opposite. The ordinariness of the world shattered me.
Scents tell the story of our lives
There are so many words to describe scents. Silage. Petrichor. Noisome. Musk. Miasma. For fun, I sometimes read perfume descriptions. I ask myself: Do I really know the difference between amber flower and ordinary rose? How does amber encompass a scent? And how can I discover a heart note versus a base note?
The cultural turn towards scents
I have recently noticed the cultural trend towards scents: TikTok dedicated to the history of perfumes, famous celebrities endorsing fragrances, and promises of mood organization through scent therapy. If I had to guess, I think this obsession with scents relates to our desire to be unique in a fragmented world. We believe our scents can reveal something unique about us, just as personality types or astrological signs can.
Distinctive fragrances
I have reached a crossroads when it comes to fragrances. Over the past year, I have used the rose perfume I chose in a moment of confusion in a luxury store. I was so bewildered, and my nose was dead to detail, so I took whatever seemed least annoying at that moment. But when I wear it, I don’t feel like myself. I have the impression that an elegant retired lady enters my shadow and leaves her scent behind. After recovering from COVID-19, I tried wearing the rose fragrance again, but I had to store it away quickly after that. It would smell lovely on someone else, but now it just makes me nauseous.
Searching for a new fragrance
I have been hesitant in my search for a new fragrance. What I loved in my twenties – the florals, the herbs, the citrus – is not the same as what I enjoy now. I feel a longing for complexity and vibrancy; I miss unvarnished beauty. It should be cunning and a little dangerous, the right kind of bitterness, a dance in the dark. Over the past few months, I’ve tried many fragrances, but to no avail.
The perfect fragrance
But one morning, I took a drive through the countryside at an unreasonable hour of the night, when the roads stretched empty and the air still carried the night’s moisture. As the sun rose over the horizon, I smelled it – a composition that made my eyes widen and my senses tingle. My car almost came to a stop. How can I describe it? Damp earth, freshly split wood, the burnt caramel scent of fire, the smell of old clothes.
I have been chasing that scent ever since. Is it possible to appreciate many things at once? Or is it like capturing magic in a glass jar? On some levels, that scent was the result of a very specific set of circumstances, an olfactory bond that cannot be replicated and does not last long like the perfect memory.
The distinctive fragrance is what our body exudes
When my daughter hugs me before she goes to school, I bury my nose in her scalp. Is it her shampoo that I find irresistible? Or her lotion? Or the laundry detergent on her clothes? What makes her scent unique? With my mother, through every perfume she used, I can smell her essence: warmth, sweat, and a bouquet of clove thyme that makes me feel as essential as home. Those scents cannot be bottled.
Perhaps
Some scents are revealed to only a few through the weary effort of days, keen observation, and love. It takes two bodies to emit a smell: the body that produces it and the body that consumes it. The word “perfume” comes from a collection of Latin words meaning “through smoke.” So, perhaps this is how we find each other and ourselves; through the smoke and confusion of daily life.
Although scent can be present at the center of the self, it seems stronger when it emanates from collective rituals. I think of swinging incense sticks in a temple; the chlorine clinging to swimsuits in the locker room; the sauce simmering on the stove during the holidays. A busy summer trip in a small car filled with aunts, grandmothers, and children, each of them exuding their unique smells. A fragrance-laden embrace from the brides before a wedding. In the end, the power of scent emerges not from its singularity, but from the way it intertwines with other beloved scents in our lives, creating an infinite arrangement containing all the small but essential notes.
Thao Thai is a writer and editor in Ohio, where she lives with her husband and daughter. Her debut novel “Banyan Moon” was released this year. Thao has also written for Cup of Jo about absent fathers, mothering patterns, and physical affection. You can subscribe to her newsletter here.
Image by MaaHoo/Stocksy.
20 Comments
Write a comment…
Source: https://cupofjo.com/2023/12/19/do-you-have-a-signature-scent/
Leave a Reply