Smell - Issuu

from Off The Cuff Magazine | Issue 17 | Beyond the Body

Scent

By Anna Thornley

When I went to school in London, I babysat a newborn baby named Finley. Objectively, he was the most beautiful and perfect baby the world has ever seen. So it figured, he smelled delicious. Fresh baby smell is like nothing else. It is sweet but not cloying. Warm, soft, and downy. It is love. As he slept in my arms, his little hand cupped around my neck, I sniffed his fluffy head so deeply, it could be considered huffing. It’s evolution, and I’m only human. On my walk home, the air around me smelled of him; it cloaked my aura like a halo of goodness. My clothes carried the scent, and I’d try desperately to return to him by wearing them again and again. But the smell always faded. Now, I live an ocean away, and Finley has grown into a toddler who probably smells sticky. All that’s left of his baby smell is memories.

I’ll never get to smell my own babies. Walking by a smoker on the street will no longer make me gag and retch. I won’t smile while folding clean laundry, won’t wash my hands over and over again after pumping gas, won’t know when my B.O. is so bad it’s overwhelming.

I have nasal polyps –just about the least sexy name for the least sexy thing– growths inside your nasal canal. These little fuckers steal your sense of smell. I have my dad to thank for this genetic curse. I’ll admit that it was wonderful not to have to worry about masking the smell of weed in high school. But I also knew his scent blindness would become mine.

The decision to cultivate a signature scent, while I still could, was at first accidental but has since become a vocation. The summer before I left for school in London, I was caught up in a whirlwind situationship. One night, during a very suburban rendez-vous, a smell so sweet, so intoxicating, so life-changing, permeated the sweaty car air and made me stop mid-kiss. I never stop mid-kiss. But I could not go on until I knew what it was. “What’s that smell?” I demanded, almost shouting. “Are you using a new shampoo?” “Yes,” he admitted sheepishly, disturbed by (and probably jealous of) my keen observation skills.

When I next slept over at his house, I knew I had to find the exact shampoo– flavor, brand, the whole shabang. Like a thief in the night, I pulled apart his musty shower curtains, only to be greeted by a graveyard of bottles. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. I opened each one, until, like Goldilocks with her breakfast cereal, I found my “just right.” The teal bottle glowed in the dark or just in the flash of my phone camera as I snapped a picture, and first thing next morning I drove straight to the nearest CVS to get my hands on some. I haven’t used another shampoo since.

While people did constantly comment on my sweet smelling locks, hair gets dirty, and the smell diminishes each day between washes. I wanted allure, and for that I needed substance and staying power. Inspiration struck where I’d least expect it.

At the time, I lived with four guys. Two of them were great, the other two– not so much. In particular, there was no love lost between me and Asa. I’ll reduce him to what he was: nothing more than a caricature. He spent his free time crying when Chelsea lost, shaming the rest of us for eating carbonara, and tokenizing his trans-Atlantic identity that was neither exotic nor unique in a house of three British-Americans. He came from money; his father did something dubious and too boring to remember, and his mother worked for Vogue. He unfollowed me before I could unfollow him first, and I’m still bitter about it.

But before we could cut ties and never speak again, it was a Sunday, and I was hunched over a plate of jammy toast, nursing a hangover. He swaggered into the kitchen, and as I began to scowl, I was stopped in my tracks.

Smellsmell

A smell that was clean, rare, and captivating filled the air. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Alfie, one of the good ones, immediately exclaimed, and soon we had all joined in. It was a Vogue perk that he claimed was an after-shave. I asked him the name, but he was greedy. He was gatekeeping (not girlbossing). He did not want me to smell good. I obviously wasn’t going to let this stop me. I don’t know when to take no for an answer. Once again, the bathroom was the scene of the crime. While the boys played soccer, I scaled the cabinet for the bottle. He’d worked too hard to emphasise that it was an aftershave– a classic tell. It was not aftershave at all. Nor

a cologne, nor a room spray. No, this could only be a perfume. Its ornate gold and green bottle drew me to it before I knew for sure it was the one. My impulse to spritz my wrists was so automatic, it felt out of body. But before I could revel in the fragrance, I realized my mistake. The scent is so distinctive, Asa would know. As soon as he got close, he would realize I was a thief. And knowing him, he would accuse me. I could lie, but it would be useless. So, I got in the shower and started scrubbing. I used every single body wash and prayed for a miracle. Luckily, the musk of sweat, dirt, and ego overpowered every sense. I was in the clear. As soon as I landed in Boston, I ordered it off Walmart for cheap, and it felt like a war medal. I use three spritzes a day. Nowadays, I try to hold onto the scents I love most. The smell of the changing leaves. The crisp almost-winter air. Orange peel that gets stuck under my nails. Hot sizzling bacon. The ocean breeze. The list goes on and on. My pattern of stealing scents from men is also far from over. My boyfriend uses an amazing body wash. I do have a picture of it saved on my phone, and it is waiting in my shopping cart as we speak. And one day, when I can’t smell anymore, I will at least be comforted knowing that I smell incredible. What more could a girl possibly want?

Title

Author’s note: Because I am not Asa, and I want everyone to smell good, I will of course share the aforementioned scents. I will keep only the body wash a mystery because I am not using it yet, so it has not been tried and tested. I also don’t want everyone and their mother smelling like my boyfriend.