Opening Notes
Scent has always fascinated me. Its ability to trigger memories, change your mood, and transport you to another place seems like an unfair amount of power for something you can’t even see.
Over time, this fascination has developed into a full-blown and financially irresponsible passion, so I’ve decided the least I can do is start writing about it.
The Smell of Home
Back in 2016, I found myself in my second year of uni, living in shared accommodation with three other students. A turbulent flat of four, we were all wildly different in terms of background, interests, and temperament. The only thing we really had in common was our shared struggle with newfound independence and our unconvincing masquerade of enjoying it.
Contrary to what university prospectuses and coming-of-age films would have you believe, university was not an endless montage of parties and carefree living. I found it quite overwhelming. I had grown up on the Isle of Wight, where life was predictable, familiar, and pleasantly repetitive – the same hangouts, the same days out, and the usual sea of familiar faces in the usual shops and towns.
I distinctly remember thinking that I would be perfectly happy to remain within the chalky confines of the island for as long as I could afford to. Unfortunately, job prospects on the Isle of Wight were not quite as romantic as the landscape, so off to London I went to study literature in the hope of broadening my horizons.
Suddenly, I was faced with the reality that I was about to enter adulthood alone, in a city I had already decided was far too big for me, which, in hindsight, was probably exactly why I needed to go.
Independence, Apparently
Sitting alone in my university bedroom (which was actually a repurposed living room that my flatmates had to walk through to get to the garden), I found myself going through my recent “adult” purchases. Among them was a box of Lidl tumble dryer sheets, which I had bought purely because I felt like the kind of person who owned tumble dryer sheets probably had their life together. I did not, but it felt like a step in the right direction.
They seemed as essential as the bulk bag of dried rice I had also purchased, which I would almost certainly never cook, instead favouring the far less nutritious but far more convenient microwave pouches.
The dryer sheets proved to be just as functionally useless as my decorative bag of rice, as my sensitive skin would tolerate nothing but non-bio detergent. Still, they were not entirely without purpose. I eventually found a very good use for them: lining my pillowcases. For the smell, of course (I stand by this decision).
I often look back on this small act as the first clear indication that my interest in scent had surpassed normal levels. I became slightly obsessed with having “smelly” things near me at all times.
It wasn’t really about smelling nice, or even comfort exactly, but about feeling vaguely more in control of my surroundings. In a flat that felt particularly alien, it gave me a small, scented corner of something that felt like home.
Ironically, my scent of choice at the time was called Alien – Thierry Mugler’s crowned classic and the blueprint for countless imitators. Whether through negative association or simple maturation, my tastes have since moved on from the sharp, almost sickly anise of that otherworldly icon. The scents I choose now are mostly selected for comfort, something my university experience noticeably lacked.
Scent and Survival
The dryer sheets, however unglamorous, brought me comfort because scent gives us something to anchor ourselves to. It’s one of the senses mindfulness asks us to focus on when we feel untethered, which, at the time, was a fairly common occurrence.
This olfactory sense of calm became strangely addictive. Before long, dryer sheets were dotted around my life – tucked into hoodie pockets, slipped into bags, left in drawers, and occasionally placed on shelves like low-budget potpourri.
As unhinged as it might seem, it really did work. I would catch small whiffs of clean laundry in unfamiliar places and feel marginally more in control of my life. Some people carried photos of home. I carried tumble dryer sheets. It was, in retrospect, an early indication that scent was going to become a recurring theme in my life.
Before I left for university, one of the key things I bought for the move was an aromatherapy diffuser, complete with oils that had names like “A Breath of Beach” or “A Whisper of Fennel” – the ornamental sort of names that make you believe you’re about to become a much calmer and more organised person.
I did not become a calmer or more organised person. But my room did smell very nice.
Formative First Sprays
This brings me to perfume, a far more accessible comfort than the lint-covered dryer sheets I had previously relied on.
I’m actually hard-pressed to remember my very earliest fragrances. Of course, I can recall the most significant from my juvenile collection. Avon’s Far Away was “the” fragrance of my youth, without question. I repeatedly asked for top-up bottles on birthdays, because, of course, I was spraying a filthy amount at a time, as we all did at that age – a habit formed in gym changing rooms and never fully unlearned.
Another fragrance I was much too heavy-handed with was Britney Spears’ Midnight Fantasy. If my scent family of choice wasn’t already obvious, I gravitated toward anything obnoxiously sweet – the more sugary, syrupy and granulated, the better. It wasn’t until, perhaps, Year 10 that my infantile nose began to appreciate something other than pure saccharine in perfume.
I remember one of my closest friends, Chloe, sitting beside me in one class or another (possibly Spanish), quickly reaching forward to grab something from further up the desk. In the wake of her movement, she left behind the most bewitching scented trail – a term I would later learn was called “sillage”.
I didn’t know what any of the notes were, but I knew immediately that the smell made me feel calm and comforted. I was sitting in a classroom, but mentally I was somewhere else entirely. In fact, if the teacher had called on me at that moment, I’m fairly certain the only Spanish I could have produced was “Me encanta el perfume,” which, unfortunately, was not on the curriculum.
I immediately asked her what she was wearing. “Harajuku Lovers “G” by Gwen Stefani”, she enthused. Well, my mind was made up. I knew exactly which perfume I wanted for my birthday that year, and for once, it wasn’t Far Away.
Unauthorised Sampling
Delving this far back into my past with perfume has resurfaced yet another core memory. Although it shames me to admit, my love of fragrance knew no bounds, and whenever I visited anyone – friends, family, anyone – I would always have a little look at what they had going on in their bathroom cabinet. This was, I suppose, my first experience of sampling.
While these fragrances didn’t lead to any great preference epiphanies, they did give me an early insight into the world of celebrity fragrance, which, now that I’m older, I understand to be a wildly oversaturated market.
I’ve never been entirely convinced that being a good singer or actor automatically warrants a fragrance bearing your name, especially if the scent isn’t something the individual would actually wear themselves. Do these celebrities ever smell the fragrance before it’s released? Do they have any say in the notes? Or is the whole thing decided somewhere in a boardroom while their name is printed on the bottle?
That said, this is not to dismiss celebrity perfumes entirely. There is novelty in them, of course. Take G by Gwen Stefani, for example, one of my first olfactory crushes. I do give that line more credit than most celebrity launches, as it’s well documented that Gwen has a genuine fascination with Harajuku culture, something she’s referenced in plenty of songs and lyrics. That gives it enough authenticity for me.
I’m more referring to the launches that seem to have no personal connection whatsoever beyond the name and face on the bottle – particularly female fragrances released under male celebrity names. Is their nose really refined enough to decide what their fans want to smell like? Or is it just a quick cash-grab, capitalising on the unsure gift-giver who knows little else about the recipient apart from their love for a particular singer or actor?
But we digress.
Spritz, Sniff, Repeat
I have loved – and will always love – fragrance. Anyone close to me can confirm that one of the primary forms of entertainment at my house is having a spritz and a chat about one of my many perfumes. I welcome it. I actively enjoy the conversation, debate, and mild disagreements that come with the subjectivity of scent.
Thinking about this has reminded me of a girls’ night I hosted, which I somehow managed to steer into fragrance territory. After we were a bottle or so deep, I gave the obligatory merlot-fuelled house tour, paying particular attention to my bedroom – the bathroom, spare room and kitchen were slightly lacking in spectacle.
Once in my room, we did the usual polite appreciation of the obvious decor before inevitably narrowing our focus to the trinkets and, unsurprisingly, my many bottles of perfume. I began handing out whatever was within reach from my dresser and asking for opinions like some sort of crazed amateur fragrance consultant.
Writing this down has made me realise I may come across as slightly unhinged, especially when these events are described in isolation. But I suppose that to be truly interested in anything, a certain level of madness is required.
Scent and Self
My reason for wanting to share fragrance with others is partly selfish. While I love introducing people to new perfumes, notes, and stories, there’s also the selfish pleasure of hearing other people’s interpretations of a scent I think I know well. It reintroduces my own curiosity and appreciation for something that might otherwise become too familiar.
Scent is deeply personal, but once you start talking about it with other people and try to see it from a more objective point of view, it becomes just as revealing about the other person as it does about yourself. In a strange way, that feels like a kind of intimacy – talking about thoughts and feelings that you wouldn’t normally discuss, all because of something as inanimate as perfume.
One thing I would love to do through documenting my interest in perfume is broaden someone else’s understanding, so they too, can experience the same pleasure I get from it. Buying perfume is so much more than paying to smell “sexy” or “cute” for someone else. I have never chosen perfume with anyone else in mind. In fact, I would argue that most, if not all, of my fragrances could easily be considered repellent by others, especially people my age.
I tend to lean towards soapy, slightly “mature” fragrances that many a Sephora-goer would probably scrunch their nose at and label as “grandma”-leaning. That is completely fine with me. I am largely unbothered by the norms of perfumery and the typical ideas that come with it – gatekeeping, for example. I am annoyingly vocal about what I’m wearing, if anyone can smell it to ask, that is. I’m a lover of skin scents these days, you see. A far cry from my overspray days.
Perfume Has Favourites
Gatekeeping, as a concept, becomes completely redundant when you realise how differently perfume behaves on everyone’s skin. I embarrassingly used to think this was a myth until very recently. A month or so ago, I was out shopping with my sister, Hannah, and we stopped by SpaceNK with the intention of finding her a signature scent. We browsed the endless LED shelves and eventually settled on the minimalist display of DedCool. Having owned a discovery set of theirs in the past, I encouraged her to try a few and confidently vouched for their quality.
Taunt 01, a scent I had previously only “okayed” from my own discovery set, was completely transformed on her skin. No exaggeration, my jaw actually dropped. As pleasant as it had seemed when I sampled it, on Hannah, it became something entirely different. Something about her skin chemistry created the most beautiful smoky, ambery scent. I genuinely began to question whether my sample had been faulty or in some impossibly early stage of maceration.
I went back to the same tester bottle Hannah had just used, sprayed my own wrist again, and sure enough, I was met with the same muted, flat aroma I remembered from before. I told Hannah she had to buy a travel size. She did. And she has since repurchased.
This is the beauty of fragrance. It is as personal as the clothes we wear on our skin – an invisible wardrobe of sorts. This isn’t to say I feel incomplete without perfume; I can happily go about my day with naked skin. But when I do wear something, its effect on my mood and general sense of self is nothing short of extraordinary.
I am often surprised that some people are oblivious to this aspect of perfumery. Perhaps they simply haven’t sampled enough scents in their lifetime, or perhaps they believe, as I once did, that perfume is merely a cloud of “something” worn to attract attention or make a statement to others. Seen from that perspective, it does seem rather dull.
The reason I wear scent is because it makes me feel something in a way that other material things simply cannot. To me, it is art. It is evocative in a way that disarms and brings out feelings, memories, and thoughts I didn’t know were previously there.
Just as a painting might change someone’s mood or perspective, perfume does this for me daily. It invites a new mood, a shift in how I’m feeling. Anyone familiar with the “Thoughts, Feelings, Behaviours” cycle will know this shift is anything but small. Yes, I’ve been to therapy. No, I will not be discussing my perfume-buying habits there.
Add to Basket
On a slightly more sobering note, I’ve read quite a bit online about the slippery slope of what people call “perfume addiction”. Countless stories describe the same pattern: the urge to buy something new, blind buying without sampling, or impulsively adding something to a cart simply because they liked the bottle and trusted the contents would be just as appealing.
In a world of mass consumerism, this comes as no surprise, especially given the exclusivity that often surrounds certain fragrances and their supposedly finite nature. When a perfume is labelled “limited edition” and eventually disappears from shelves, bottles often reappear on sites like eBay or Vinted for a hefty sum, sometimes triple the original price.
Take Melanie Martinez’s Cry Baby, for example. I saw old bottles listed for thousands, only for the scent to be re-released in the very same year. This manufactured sense of urgency is nothing more than clever marketing, yet we all react to it, driven by the fear of missing out on something we believe we may never have the chance to own again.
And sometimes, that fear isn’t entirely irrational.
Perfumes That Only Exist Online
Some perfumes really do disappear. They slowly vanish from shelves and, before long, exist only as ghosts online – spoken about, reviewed, remembered, but nowhere to be found.
Avon’s Pur Blanca Noite is one of my greatest “what could have been” fragrances. One day, out of curiosity, I used Fragrantica’s note search tool and entered some of my favourite fragrance notes. Every single one appeared in Noite. I began reading the reviews and saw all the words I always hope to see when searching for a perfume: creamy, Dove soap, clean. It sounded perfect. I needed to smell it.
I searched everywhere, Google, reselling sites, old listings, but to no avail. It really was gone. I found myself strangely frustrated, made worse by the fact that Avon is usually such an affordable brand. The idea that I might have missed out on my dream fragrance for under twenty pounds made the whole thing feel disproportionately tragic.
Another example is Tom Daxon’s Riven Oak. I was visiting my sister Hannah. One of the small joys of sisterhood is sampling each other’s things – clothes, beauty products, and, of course, perfume. On one of her shelves, I noticed a bottle from Tom Daxon. Thinking nothing of it, I picked it up and sprayed it. Immediate infatuation.
It has been many years since I smelled it, so I couldn’t accurately describe it to you now, but I remember being completely taken by it. As is often the case when I smell something I love, I immediately decided I needed a bottle of my own.
When I asked Hannah where she had bought it, she told me it actually belonged to her partner, Tom. Apparently, it had been quite expensive for what it was, but that didn’t deter me in the slightest.
I mentioned that I might buy a bottle for myself, to which Hannah said that would be a bit odd – to smell like her partner. Perhaps she was right. Unfortunately, this moral dilemma was resolved for me when I later looked for it online and discovered it had been discontinued. The decision was taken entirely out of my hands.
Still, that scent stayed with me. It’s one of those fragrances that has lived in my memory for years – a perfume I never owned, and apparently never could, without creating a slightly strange family dynamic.
The Only Opinion That Matters
On paper, it probably makes no sense that I wanted a bottle of my sister’s partner’s cologne when there are thousands of perfumes marketed directly at me. But there’s no real use in intellectualising it. I simply liked how it made me feel.
A true advocate for wearing perfume for yourself and not for others, I can honestly say that my most expensive perfumes get the most wear in bed. I rarely show these perfumes off, mostly saving them for solitary moments like naps or sleep, where they can be fully appreciated by absolutely no one.
Spraying a select few has become a nightly ritual, the final step in my self-care routine. I spray my pulse points, climb into bed, and wait for the warmth of my body to release the fragrance. Every so often, I catch a faint hint of it, which makes me take slower, deeper breaths just to catch more of the scent. Whether this is aromatherapy or just an expensive habit I’ve justified to myself, I’m not entirely sure, but it does help me fall asleep.
Marilyn Monroe famously said she wore nothing to bed but Chanel No. 5. I can’t claim quite the same level of glamour, but the general idea is there.
I do sometimes wonder whether there are any health downsides to my love of perfume. It’s something I’ve become more aware of over time, and even more so since we welcomed a new feline family member. I’m nowhere near as liberal with my spraying as I once was.
There was a time I made myself feel genuinely unwell after an overenthusiastic bedtime spritz. I woke up with a sore throat and a painful chest and briefly wondered whether perfume might finally be the thing that takes me out. Coincidence? Possibly.
On That Note
Alas, that is quite enough prattle for a first post. If fragrance is your thing, or if you’re wondering whether it might be, I’d be very happy to continue sharing my olfactory dotings.
This was supposed to be a short introduction, but it appears I have accidentally written my perfume autobiography. I suspect this will become a recurring theme.
On that note, I’m off to spritz my wrists,
Holly
On That Note 
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