Scarves and scent

Have I ever not been aware of references to the smell of perfume on a scarf?

Have I ever not been stricken dead in my tracks, frozen as if in a bad dream, at the thought of purposely applying a scent to a scarf for purposes of imbuing it in a scent?  I mean...I love scarves.  I love them because of how they feel.  And look.  And would applying perfume change that, compromising the fabric, shortening its life, ruining dyes?  What if the perfume I wanted to wear on a day I want to wear scarf X is not the perfume I want to wear the next time I wear scarf X?

The answers used to be "not that I can remember" and "yes, always."  Until a few weeks ago.

'Twas a decant that slayed the beast.

Turns out that vintage Houbigant has a tricky trigger.  Such a wide swath of spray, that it dribbled.  Had this been a replaceable perfume, I might have felt a certain constriction of my chest, a certain sadness, but would have said "sayonara."  But this was precious vintage.  It was only going away, never coming back.

I saw the scarf.  I reached.  I wiped.

Know what?  Apercu makes a mighty nice scarf scent, in a classic perfume way.  Not too heavy, enough flowers to say "perfume," enough lift to keep the flowers from smothering, enough other elements to keep it from being boring.  And, to tell you the truth, I'd rather my scarf smell like that than like sebum.

Go figure.

The damage was done, fiber & dye-wise.  If any were to be done.  I found myself going off in search of a few other scarves...after all, there were more perfumes to be decanted.  There might be other accidents.  One should always be prepared, after all.

Turns out I had two more accidents.  Which probably require those quote marks in the air -- I'm raising and curling my two fingers on each hand, drawing them down and saying "accidents."

I consoled my not-so-shaken but not-so-certain cautious self with the reminder that I could always hand wash.  Sure, even the silk.  Sort of.

**
This sent me on a pleasant rumination about how one could go about assigned scent to scarves.  Of course, there is Tradition.  Which means signature scent:  "Her scarf was all she left...it still smelled like...her."  In my brain, "smelling like her" has more to do with smelling like sebum and onions and such than perfume, but hey, I came to perfume later in life.  It works for some.  Especially if they have a trademark perfume.  In my world, the line would be something more like "Her scarf was all she left behind...it still smelled like she did on a sunny day in early spring when she felt like a chypre but still snuck in a spritz of hay."

Obviously, I needed a different system, scarf-wise.

The first step was easy, I thought.  Sort scarves by season.  Oops, not so fast; certain scarves carry over.  Only the thick chunky woolens and the very sheer gauzy veils end up ghettoized by the weather.  The rest can move up and down in the batting order.   Okay, change tack.  Texture.  That's it.  That's good.  Texture and thickness.

But then I started thinking about that, and my blue and green nubby scarf seems like it could handle a fresher scent than the maroon with flecks of gold.  Shoot.

At this point, I had completely bought into the idea.  So I was bound and determined to scent a couple of scarves on purpose.  But I was lost in the woods with no compass.  How to get out of here?

Kabonk.  Match one scent to a scarf, or find one scarf to match a scent.  Which meant pick two or three scents I wouldn't mind being imbued in a fabric I had about my neck.  And then see if I had a scarf that "looked like" that fragrance.

Now the game was fun.  And seemed manageable.  Though, truth be told, it was a heckuva a lot easier to just toss responsibility in the air and do things "accident" style.

*

Which is Aperçu?

Besides the Aperçu, my conscious decision scents were Amouage Epic, and Magie Noire.  I already have an "outer scarf" that wafts L'Accord -- pretty wonderful, and works well with the cozy depths of the scarf, but must admit that was incidental, which makes it accidental.  I picked Epic because it is one of my occasion scents, something I wear when I want to smell fabulous and yes want the smell to not take backstage.  Figured it would be interesting to see how it behaved on a scarf, since the Aperçu did smooth out and focus at the same time on fabric.  The Magie Noire, well...that was because it is a favorite of the other lodger on the Ledge.  Add in the fact that I like it, and it easily becomes a something I wouldn't mind too much if that was the recognizable "me" on a scarf I left behind.  That part of me, at least.

Did I choose well?  I chose in winter.  I'll probably try a couple of other things with lighter scarves.  Will I fall into the habit?  I doubt it.  I'm still a little nervous about damaging the scarves.  And, truth be told, about commitment.  Remember, with perfumes, I'm Big Love.  And I like to have my options at the start of any given day.

Speaking of options...did I tell you about the scented hankies?  No?  Ah.  They are small.  They are plentiful.  They can be found for a song second hand.  And, if you were really particular, you could sew the initials of the perfume you assign to a given hankie and have handy to toss in a bag...

...but we were talking scarves.  And scents for them.  So many possibilities.  So impossible to choose just one.


first photo, scarves akimbo, author's own
photo of Grace Kelly in scarf from The Gloss
photo of Alan Cumming from Broadway World

Land Yacht

Do you remember referring to certain large make American automobiles as "land yachts"?  The LTD's, the ginormous Caddies, the long heavy steel carriages that floated down the highways like hippo-weight marshmallow clouds?

As a kid, riding in the back of a Pinto station wagon, I'd check out those land cruisers.  I'd feel sorry for their hog-ness.  And I'd wonder if maybe people who rode in those didn't get car sick.

Who knew that one day they'd turn a truck into a passenger vehicle, and the whole game would change?


***
It's road trip time.

For reasons not quite vacation, certainly not business, and everything having to do with family and moving toward independence, I am pointed east.  With a driver's permit equipped teenager, a slew of Google maps, and a loose plan that has two firm pin-points on the agenda.

Yesterday's miles took us onto tollroad and Turnpike.  And the layers of memories started to lift up like calendar pages in the "time passes" montage from old movies.  Roadside sign symbols.  Place names.  Sounds of voices.  Proximity of people.  An odd, triangle on its side shaped back window that you could only pop out a little bit.

And then, not at the Knute Rockne traveler's station, but at Falling Timbers, a move out of my experience to my mother's.  For in that outdated "oasis," a paean to things 1950's, in the worn at the heels women's restroom, was what at first glance seemed to be a standard issue feature.  A diaper changing room.  With a groovy light up sign mounted above the door directing you to it, mind you, but still; we've all seen a changing station before.

Except that as I paused to look, feeling an odd mix of curiosity at the janitor's closet ambience and the requisite wondering if the men's room had one and a touch of nostalgia at the fact that the one of the subject/objects of diaper changes in my parenting life was taking his turn driving.  And as I paused, my mind tracked back to one of those impressions.  Why janitor's closet?  Oh, right, there's a sink in there.  These days, you get a fold down piece of plastic with a picture of a koala and an empty wipe dispenser inside and hope to goodness the hinge will be strong enough to support your baby.  Okay, walk by.

Come again?  No, that wasn't it.  Look back.  Step fully inside this time.  Ah, it's that the sink is oversize.  Large enough to...to wash a diaper out.  Holy freakin' cow.  And that drain at the bottom?  It's not a metal-flower covered 2" opening.  No, it's a genuine, rock 'em sock 'em toilet exit type egress.  So now I am frozen for a moment, trying to take in a) one giant sink, at just below waist level, b) the fact that it is plumbed like a toilet, sort of, and c) omg, this is the kind of thing that would have made life easier for my mother.  Because

...you don't know how awful family road trips are until you try to pack food for a day and travel with a baby and if you're the passenger up front you have the diaper pail between your legs.  

And with that, my mother persuaded my green self to use disposable diapers while on the road, and convinced me my harried life as a young parent would never have the same flavor hers did.

Janitor toilet sink with a faucet and hot and cold handles.

So, flooded with more memories than perhaps even the janitor toilet sink could dispose of, I headed back to my vehicle.  Climbed into the passenger seat.  And held my breath as my son backed out of the parking space and accelerated onto the turnpike.

**
For those of you keeping track of the perfume score, I hit the road wearing--but of course--Normadie.  I put it on, thinking it was pleasant enough, kind of cologne-y, but was too distracted by the hubbub of getting ready to hit the road to think much about it.  Perfumista mistake, of course, since I was trying it for the first time.  So much for thoughtful notes.  So much for even just taking it in.

Two hours later, I regretted not paying a little attention, because I thought it was gone.

Three hours later, I smelled something that smelled good.  On my wrist.  Well, I'll be.  WHOOPS there's a situation to talk new driver through....and again, distracted.

Five hours later, it's still there.  And now I've been on the road long enough I'm started to rethink the idea of applying scent for a car trip.  Which I knew, I KNEW, would potentially be a something to take into account.

At eight hours, and nearly to our stopping point, it was nearly gone.  Irony, irony, irony.  I am going to pause by Lake Erie, my benchmark for least retention time, and Normandie is a disappearing/reappearing tenacious quiet lovely thing.  I think.  I'll pay more attention next time.  For sure, it was more a Huron or Michigan on my wrist, even as I looked out onto Lake Erie.

*
About to head out for Leg Two.  With Amouage Abyadh attar on my wrists.  Which I will report on next.

Fail.

I smell good.

I am wearing Amouage Epic Woman.

Sorry.  I can't save you money--Amouage scents cost a bundle.  I can't yet speak intelligently about it--the first time I applied, I thought it was a no-go.  At this moment, I am VERY happy with my investment in a split.

So, as far as review or public service go... "fail."

However, you do know how I came to have in my possession that which I have discussed.  Which is an issue that is being discussed in bloggery right now.  And I shall attempt to take up next.