I am standing at a perfume counter. It’s a place I rarely
find myself standing for two reasons. One, I’m the kind of girl who likes deals
and would rather tear samples from a nail salon’s year old Cosmo than pay full
price for a bottle of liquid that will likely evaporate or spoil before I get
my money’s worth. And two, perfume
counters rarely give out actual samples anymore, those cute little tubes with
the brand name in miniature across their length, and the idea of committing to
a signature scent from a few squirts on a thick strip of gourmet paper, seems absolutely
irresponsible.
But I have a gift card from my best friend and strict
instructions. So I’m standing at a
perfume counter with a lush-lashed lady who is leaning across the polished
expanse of counter between us, with just a glance of appropriate Neiman Marcus
cleavage. I’ve decided to trust her because she is wearing a somewhat reasonable
amount of make-up. She reaches for my
wrists and I extend them obediently, giving in to the inevitability of leaving
with a headache, no matter what perfume I purchase.
She dabs my wrists, a different scent for each pulse point,
and begins elaborate descriptions. Her words vaporize as the scent on my left
wrist transports me to my mom’s little glass tray, on her side of the deep double
sink, in their bathroom. Her pearl earrings lay on top of their reflection
right next to the pretty bottle of white perfume. Gardenia. Yes, that’s it. I can’t remember if
that’s the actual name or just the flower it’s fashioned after but it makes me
smile to remember the summer I saved my strawberry picking money and gave her the smallest bottle for her birthday.
I will ask my mom if she still wears that perfume.
I will ask my dad what he misses most about his mom.
I scoot down the counter, nodding my head and dutifully
bringing one wrist to my nose and then the other. I want the clerk to know she
has done a good job, that she has pleased me. Not because I will buy either one
but because the headache will be worth it.
Wow! KSoo. Reading your gorgeous post I was transported back to my mother's mirrored perfume tray (Shalimar was her signature scent) and was able to conjure my grandmother's powder puff (hers rested in a gold topped jar) and all of the feelings and memories that went along with being a little girl in a big girl's world. I could see and smell and feel it all!!!! And I didn't have to get a headache. Such is the power of your willingness to so beautifully render and share your memories with us. Thank you. Love you! J
ReplyDeleteI say awesome too much, but this was awesome. As usual, it was so rich and so succinct at the same time. I laughed until I was being taken aback, and touched with emotion. Annie
ReplyDeleteGorgeous. There's nothing more potent than smell. Thank you!!
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