The stories behind her favorite perfume scents and other thoughts about what you smell like.

By: Nicole Lockhart

My mother no longer wears perfume. She complains they give her headaches. But perhaps she has just been abused like the millions of other men and women, hounded down in department stores with little regard for personal space and callously spritzed with the latest eau du toilette (Yes, that means toilet water in French). That scent follows us home, lingers around us on our clothes and immortalized in the unshowerable parts of our pores. There is, we begin to believe, a possibility the stench never goes away and will haunt forever. And then, by plot twist, it grows on us. So we go back to the department store to try it on, only to find that it is no longer on sale and we still in fact hate it. In a way, the inability to find a fragrance that we don’t mind being covered in for the day may seem like we have commitment issues. But we are all searching for that whiff of love, knowing it is not easily found at first spray.

When she did wear perfume, my mother chose Clinique’s “Happy”. A soft citrus scent that wandered around with her like a sunny day in a country garden. It was the kind of smell my nine year old self associated with the quiet joys of reading a book under her arm, or playing on the carpeted floors of her bathroom while watching her primp as she prepared for a night out with my father. As a good mother does, she let me try it on once or twice. When the mist swirled around me like an angel’s breath I became ankew. The transformation still happens when I smell the now classic perfume, still sold in Macy’s or any remaining department stores. It tethers me to the memories of my happy childhood and to the desire to grow-up and be the kind of woman my mother projected when she wore her signature scent.

I used to steal that perfume from her counter and take it to school, spraying myself with its confidence boosting contents in-between classes. By the time I got to highschool I was obsessed with finding the perfect signature scent for myself. I wanted to wear something that projected who I was without even speaking for myself. I wanted a fragrance so attuned to my being that when I would walk by, the heads would turn, and people would know that I was here. In a recent conversation with bespoke perfume creator Sue Phillips, owner of The Scentarium a make-your-own parfumerie located in TriBeCa, I marveled that my sense of smell was the only one of my senses I couldn’t turn off. To stop smelling, I would have to stop breathing. “I spent years,” I explained to Phillips a fragrance verteran with over 35 years in the industry, “following my curiosity for smells.” I was always penning them in my

My mother no longer wears perfume. She complains they give her headaches. But perhaps she has just been abused like the millions of other men and women, hounded down in department stores with little regard for personal space and callously spritzed with the latest eau du toilette (Yes, that means toilet water in French). That scent follows us home, lingers around us on our clothes and immortalized in the unshowerable parts of our pores. There is, we begin to believe, a possibility the stench never goes away and will haunt forever. And then, by plot twist, it grows on us. So we go back to the department store to try it on, only to find that it is no longer on sale and we still in fact hate it. In a way, the inability to find a fragrance that we don’t mind being covered in for the day may seem like we have commitment issues. But we are all searching for that whiff of love, knowing it is not easily found at first spray.

When she did wear perfume, my mother chose Clinique’s “Happy”. A soft citrus scent that wandered around with her like a sunny day in a country garden. It was the kind of smell my nine year old self associated with the quiet joys of reading a book under her arm, or playing on the carpeted floors of her bathroom while watching her primp as she prepared for a night out with my father. As a good mother does, she let me try it on once or twice. When the mist swirled around me like an angel’s breath I became ankew. The transformation still happens when I smell the now classic perfume, still sold in Macy’s or any remaining department stores. It tethers me to the memories of my happy childhood and to the desire to grow-up and be the kind of woman my mother projected when she wore her signature scent.

I used to steal that perfume from her counter and take it to school, spraying myself with its confidence boosting contents in-between classes. By the time I got to highschool I was obsessed with finding the perfect signature scent for myself. I wanted to wear something that projected who I was without even speaking for myself. I wanted a fragrance so attuned to my being that when I would walk by, the heads would turn, and people would know that I was here. In a recent conversation with bespoke perfume creator Sue Phillips, owner of The Scentarium a make-your-own parfumerie located in TriBeCa, I marveled that my sense of smell was the only one of my senses I couldn’t turn off. To stop smelling, I would have to stop breathing. “I spent years,” I explained to Phillips a fragrance verteran with over 35 years in the industry, “following my curiosity for smells.” I was always penning them in my creative writing, buying countless perfume samples from Luckyscent (this was in the 2000s before Sephora gave them out for free), and even traveling abroad to find a signature scent of my own. I would rip the dried samples out of magazine pages and rub it on to my skin so vigorously the ink from the advertisement would tattoo my arms. Scent like an accessory we often forget we have adorned ourselves with until a close someone reminds us how amazing we smell.

much like in fashion, evolves as we age. My grandmother’s seemingly enduring love for inky oriental perfumes like “Shalimar” or “Obsession” probably began with a preference for flowers as most young girls do. For myself I first became partial to “Cucumber Melon”, and then “Japanese Cherry Blossom” from Bath and Body Works. My first great find in fragrance came from scouring BaseNotes, a site that lists the many complex notes that make up a single fragrance. I fell in love with “Mare” by Creative Universe, Beth Terry. It was a salty seaside in a bottle that showcased a true perfumers’ creativity. At last, I had found something so unique and so accurately composed that it transported me to my summers at Hilton Head Island, packed in a van with my eight sandy cousins. I never ordered a full bottle of it but I did use every milliliter of the $7 sample.

The first fragrance I bought for myself may have been “Very Sexy” from Victoria Secret, but that was only slightly above the Bath & Body Works in terms of concentration. Perfumes are priced according to the ratio of fragrance oil to the fixative (usually alcohol). The higher the concentration of oil, the more finer the quality of perfume, and the more you’ll pay. Among the most highly concentrated is a cologne--which is not actually a gender based distinction as we have been taught by the fragrance industry. “Very Sexy” may have been my sixteen-year-old attempt to circumvent puberty and attract a certain boy on the basketball team, but it worked. A fragrance changes the air of your presentation.I was brave and a little daring when I wore it, the heat causing the scent to rise from my pulsing pituitary glands. It is not unlikely to assume that my first kiss came because I was leaning into my budding young sexuality by dawning the warm sensually experienced-ness of my maturely named perfume.

For christmas that year I had been asking for “Daisy” by Marc Jacobs--something my parents were keen to oblige as it was a less racy attempt to re-birth my innocence. The fragrance was proudly bright with hints of soft flowers in spring and I loved the quiet assurance it gave me in a time of deep insecurity. In college I discovered “Philosophy the Fragrance” by Philosophy in a discount bin of Marshall’s. There were two bottles and I wish I had bought the second, but the woman shopping next to me greedily gobbled it up as well. It has since been discontinued, only to be priced unfairly high on eBay. The aroma, to me, possessed an intellectual lightness. It had that sort of uncloudy brain feel with the freedom of a field of leafy greens and brightly colored hyacinth, bursting with lemon and ginger in moments of charged intelection.

Barneys, may it rest in retail peace, was the final frontier for fragrance pioneers. Unlike the major store carriers, Barneys New York was the mecca of innovative fragrance design. Often located on the bottom floor of the deceased department store was a world of niche perfumes showcased on brightly lit counters, behind which

stood knowledgeable sales people who neither pestered nor sprayed you. I have spent hours dazzling at the bottles of Frederic Malle, Byredo, and Molecule (known for the isomer molecule that smells different on every wearer). I settled on for myself the jasmine heady “Ophelia” by James Heely, a British perfumer I discovered the summer before in Paris.

Two years later, I purchased the expensive “Lunanera” by Tizianna Terenzi, a scent I proudly call my signature when asked in elevators by strangers. It is a powdery and spicy scent that somehow has notes of all the things I’ve learned that I love. Fig, for my dog; ylang-ylang, jasmine, myrrh, and madagascar vanilla which reminds me of my travels; and the bulgarian rose, which is a little mature for my usual taste. Somehow the composition speaks to the decades of growth and how, like my taste in fragrance, I will continue to evolve and age beautifully.

While I have no problem with wearing something that is popular, I do find that it is hard to be distinct and original when one wears a scent that is so familiar. Chanel No. 5, for instance, owes its wild popularity and to a fluke. The scent was created on accident in 1921 when CoCo Chanel hired perfumer Ernest Beaux to create five samples for her, the fifth one receiving a serendipitous overdose of aldehydes. Furthermore, we may have memories that are attached to certain familiar fragrances. For me everything Le Labo makes reminds me of the wanna-be-cool types that lived in my first New York neighborhood, who strained past trendy and somehow becoming bland and uninspiring again. I guess the same could be asked of all fashion: Why wear what anyone else is wearing? The history of perfume is as unique as it’s many great grandchildren. Originating in the tanneries of Northern Africa, known for the horrible stench of the fine leather goods, the European elite started begging for something to mask the odious stench of the luxurious animal skin and dyes. Perfume was the solution and soon became the sought after addition to a pair of leather gloves, particularly in the courts of Versaille which were known for the opulent parties. The royal court ragers were a spectacle to see but a stink to be in the mosh pit of. And so perfume became the sensation that dissociated personal hygiene, and consequently the poor from the elite. It traveled from the European countries from where most of the fragrant ingredients were sourced with the World War, as American soldiers brought back gifts for their wives. This again made perfume a status symbol that would make your friends jealous.

Now it is not uncommon to wear a fragrance. I would say that it does not inspire envy in me so much as the same curiosity it first did when I smelled my mother or rummaged a bathroom cabinet. Scent beckons you close to the wearer, saying more about them than words and sometimes actions do. A new fragrance designer I have discovered is Maya Njie who lives in Vasteras, Sweden and creates artisanal fragrances based on her blended Scandinavian and West African heritage. The story almost a decade ago. It was Versace’s “Bright Crystal”, something she sprayed at the beauty counter in a department store and honestly did not like at first. But grew on her on the way home, lingering around her like a shimmering glow of berries and pink florals, a jewel as rare and precious as she is. I’m not certain it was her signature scent or that she would continue the search to find herself in fragrant self-expression. But it did, for a moment, envelop her in happiness.

Use Basenotes.com or Frangrantica.com to research the scents that you already own and love. They will describe each note that comprises the fragrance, maybe you will notice a preference for one or more notes. Use that to explore your options virtually and let that lead you to the store for a try on or even order a sample online from a site like Luckyscent. Reach out to Kimberly Waters at Muse Experiences and see if your scent is hiding in her special collection. If you’re not sure what you like I suggest taking a chance on Scentbird.com, to begin the exploration process. For me an important part of the journey was putting my ego aside and asking people what they were wearing on the street. This led me to brands I never knew of, to unique stores and sometimes a few new friends. You may be like Elisabeta, a friend I made while browsing the numerous Fuegiua Fragrances, who layers two different perfumes to create that signature smell. Or if you want to spare no expense, there are places and people who will create something custom for you, like Sue Phillips at the Scentarium. When I first started dabbling in scent creation I would go to The Fragrance Shop NY, which allows you to use your nose to blend something of your own and they keep the recipe card for future creations. Finally, there is no need to have just one scent. Most people, myself included, have landed on several scents that are appropriate and equally as self-expressive on any given day. Let your personal aroma change with your moods, occasion, or fashion. Unless you’re a uniform minimalist, there is room for play and great fun in your choice of personal fragrance. It was an accident that made CoCo Chanel an icon, and even she says, “The best color in the whole word is the one that looks good on you.” I believe the same is true of fragrance.