I’m on a quest to find a perfume that is perfect for me. I ran out of my last bottle, which I liked, but it wasn’t the one. Since I am not willing to pay a mixologist to create my own signature scent, I am left spraying various scents up and down my arms, on the little white test strips, and in the air.
I ducked into Sephora and approached the big names first: Gucci, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana. They were either too cloyingly sweet or too old lady money. I chuckled with fondness as I passed the perfumes of my youth: Poison and Chloe. They appeared under the Christmas tree in the mid-80’s, and here they were still alive and well.
I finally ended up looking at a row of bottles called Clean, with scents like “rain,” and “warm cotton.” By that point, all I could smell was alcohol and fruit.
I threw in the towel and asked the clerk to get a bottle of the one I had used last. I was about to get in line when I thought, “No, it’s not perfect,” and turned on my heel and took my heavily perfumed arms home.
The quest continues.
My Corner of the Village 