a signature scent

“best gender neutral fragrances, sandalwood, clean, woody”

In 2020, I became obsessed with finding a signature scent. It’s curious how that coincided with the pandemic, remote work, and stay-at-home orders. Losing many of the everyday sensual joys — meals at my favorite restaurants, hugs from my friends, trips of any kind — I supplemented with smelling tiny vials of perfume and cologne in my apartment.

I started by researching “best gender neutral fragrances, sandalwood, clean, woody” (the search terms that got me closest to what I thought I wanted) and reading through forums. In reviews, the term “blind buy” comes up often — referencing when someone buys a full bottle without testing it first. Reviewers would advise the adventurous (and wealthy – these are expensive!) buyer as to if fragrances were considered safe or unsafe blind buys. I decided to keep my eyes open, instead buying upwards of 15 small samples for $3 each.

My favorite, my would-be signature scent — which smelled incredible to me, like outdoor air, sandalwood and clean skin — smelled like “warm garbage” to my partner. When I put it on they couldn’t stand to be close to me, even dramatically rolling down the car window for fresh air. So, I’m still on the hunt. The elusive signature non-garbage scent is out there.

Here are reviews for three more that didn’t make the cut.

Fox in the Flowerbed

by Imaginary Authors

Your boss asks you to stop by her house to pick up the dress she will wear to a funeral. Upon opening the front door, you are shocked to discover that every surface and object within her entryway is a clean, blinding white. Large bouquets of white flowers are cluttering the surfaces and white flower petals litter the floor. A narrow path is available for you to walk inside. You see the black dress draped over the back of a chair and you walk carefully towards it, arms held out in front of you, careful not to knock the expensive looking floral arrangements. The dust and grass clippings from the bottoms of your shoes mar the pristine surface of the floor.

Your elbow accidentally brushes against one of the vases and, on reflex, your hand darts out, catching it inches above the ground. Now on closer inspection you can tell the flowers are fake. You rub a woven petal between your fingers and it expels a surprising amount of white powdery residue, covering your hands and drifting in the air around you. You try to waft it away, but the more you do the more it seems to soak into your skin and onto the fabric of the dress. Desperate, you look around for a sink. You lather up your hands and arms in soap and dab at the black dress with a hand towel. Strangely, this hand soap is the same they used in your middle school bathroom.

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Orb-ital

by Nomenclature

You wake up, hungover. Last night you fell asleep in your wool sweater, tequila spilled down the front, but at least you managed to make it to your bed. Your leather boots, kicked off on the way to bed, tracked in salt and slush and the cedar chest where you keep your sweaters safe from moths is still open at the foot of your bed. On the nightstand is a bag of black licorice and a glass of two-day-old water. You kissed somebody at the club last night, but can’t remember his name. The kiss tasted like cigarettes, and you have a spotty memory of him rolling tobacco outside in the cold. The air in your bedroom is stale, sour and too warm, but there’s no windows to open. You light some incense hoping it will help.

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Baie 19

by Le Labo

The rain-soaked leaves make soft noises under your feet. You run your hand along the juniper bushes that you pass, droplets transferring from the leaves and running down the warm skin of your arms. It’s the middle of July and you’re on a second date with an outdoorsy masc who asked you to go hiking. They hold your hand as you cross the creek, navigating green mossy rocks. Your leather hiking boots slip with every step.

You reach your destination, the end of the trail, and the sun peeks out to shine hazily through the clouds. Your date pulls you under the shelter of a tree and crouches to get the snacks out of their backpack — raspberries, pistachios, and pre-mixed gin and tonics.

These reviews were inspired by Perfume Area by Laurel Schwulst and Sydney Shen and Diane Ackerman’s The Natural History of the Senses. Thank you to Meg Miller and Rasim Bayramov for your notes and edits. <3

Molly Garrett (she/her) is a designer & animator from Kansas City, MO. She used to work in progressive politics, and lately she has been spending her time dumpster diving for poetic language within political SMS text messages. She’s in her second year of the Graphic Design MFA at VCU.