[blue]The recent thread on Guerlain by Indie_Guy got me thinking about this whole idea of fragrances being age-specific, an idea which I, and I repeat I, dont, incidentally, buy.
So if there are fragrance for old people and fragrances for young people, what does one do when one grows old? Does one abandon ones youthful fragrances because one is old and does one all of a sudden adopt fragrances one once thought of as old and wear them just because one is now old (whatever old might mean). This logic reeks of insufferable determinism. I wont go gentle into that good night. I'll well wear what I want when I want like I've always done. I wore *Habit Rouge* when I was twenty, and I wear it now that Im 44 years old. Speaking of which, now that I am 44, one of my favorite fragrances--and this is only a recent thing--is *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme*, a fragrance which elicits a wide variety of responses on this board from elitism to ageism. But let me illustrate my point via a true story about what happened to me late last week. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent:[/blue]
[blue]I had showered in the late afternoon, doused myself liberally with *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme* from a big-assed, 6.7 oz bottle I had recently purchased and was enjoying the sillage in the crammed quarters of my car all the way to the local Wholefoods store where I stopped off to get something to eat before I went in to teach my evening class. I always try to check out with Patchouli girl, a very pretty, vivacious, and friendly neo-hippie kind of young girl around twenty years of age. You know the kind, very tasteful piercings, delicately etched tattoos in the most delicate of places, and razor-cut short and shiny natural black hair. She always has a genuine smile for me every time I checkout out with her and weve got to know one another quite well, so its always a pleasure to see her and make pleasant small talk. Oh, she always wears patchouli oil as her signature scent. In front of me, stood an equally attractive woman in her mid to late forties. Clearly one of the socialites from the surrounding affluent suburbs. She was impeccably dressed in long flowing slacks and a spaghetti string top, her whole outfit carefully coordinated in earth tones all the way done to her shoes and even her handbag, which was a really expensive, original Prada. She was athletic, confident, with clear blue eyes, flawless skin, and carefully managed, perfectly conditioned and perfectly cut short blond hair. She was not a woman to be trifled with. As I approached and got in line to check out, both she and Patchouli girl began to look at each other, and I sensed vaguely that they were exhibiting signs of considerable unease. There seemed to be a secret alliance between them. They were communicating on a level which we males are only ever dimly aware. I began to feel uncomfortable finally picking up on their unease about something both of them were clearly troubled over that had to do with me, when both of them, knowingly, looked at each other and blurted out in unison, as if theyd rehearsed for hours before this moment, I hope you dont mind, but what cologne are you wearing? It smells reeeally good. Trying to look composed, and trying to wipe the stupid, sheepish grin from my face, I muttered, Acqua di Giò Pour Homme with the slightest and most debonair of Italian and French inflections in the appropriate places. They kept telling me how wonderful it was, and I kept smiling thanking them for their kindness.
Walking out of the store, my recyclable bag filled with wholesome goodies clutched firmly under my arm, the sun was setting. The light was slowly becoming crepuscular, and the sky was ablaze in a vibrant explosion of sherbet ice-cream orange typically of summer sunsets in Texas in late August, and I was, like Patchouli girl and the Prada socialite, really, I mean reeeally digging my *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme*. Young, old, niche, designer, department store, boutique, these were now all abstractions that were all melting away like the last remnants of the day.
The only true limitations are those of the mind.
scentemental[/blue]
So if there are fragrance for old people and fragrances for young people, what does one do when one grows old? Does one abandon ones youthful fragrances because one is old and does one all of a sudden adopt fragrances one once thought of as old and wear them just because one is now old (whatever old might mean). This logic reeks of insufferable determinism. I wont go gentle into that good night. I'll well wear what I want when I want like I've always done. I wore *Habit Rouge* when I was twenty, and I wear it now that Im 44 years old. Speaking of which, now that I am 44, one of my favorite fragrances--and this is only a recent thing--is *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme*, a fragrance which elicits a wide variety of responses on this board from elitism to ageism. But let me illustrate my point via a true story about what happened to me late last week. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent:[/blue]
[red]Patchouli Girl and the Prada Socialite[/red]
[blue]I had showered in the late afternoon, doused myself liberally with *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme* from a big-assed, 6.7 oz bottle I had recently purchased and was enjoying the sillage in the crammed quarters of my car all the way to the local Wholefoods store where I stopped off to get something to eat before I went in to teach my evening class. I always try to check out with Patchouli girl, a very pretty, vivacious, and friendly neo-hippie kind of young girl around twenty years of age. You know the kind, very tasteful piercings, delicately etched tattoos in the most delicate of places, and razor-cut short and shiny natural black hair. She always has a genuine smile for me every time I checkout out with her and weve got to know one another quite well, so its always a pleasure to see her and make pleasant small talk. Oh, she always wears patchouli oil as her signature scent. In front of me, stood an equally attractive woman in her mid to late forties. Clearly one of the socialites from the surrounding affluent suburbs. She was impeccably dressed in long flowing slacks and a spaghetti string top, her whole outfit carefully coordinated in earth tones all the way done to her shoes and even her handbag, which was a really expensive, original Prada. She was athletic, confident, with clear blue eyes, flawless skin, and carefully managed, perfectly conditioned and perfectly cut short blond hair. She was not a woman to be trifled with. As I approached and got in line to check out, both she and Patchouli girl began to look at each other, and I sensed vaguely that they were exhibiting signs of considerable unease. There seemed to be a secret alliance between them. They were communicating on a level which we males are only ever dimly aware. I began to feel uncomfortable finally picking up on their unease about something both of them were clearly troubled over that had to do with me, when both of them, knowingly, looked at each other and blurted out in unison, as if theyd rehearsed for hours before this moment, I hope you dont mind, but what cologne are you wearing? It smells reeeally good. Trying to look composed, and trying to wipe the stupid, sheepish grin from my face, I muttered, Acqua di Giò Pour Homme with the slightest and most debonair of Italian and French inflections in the appropriate places. They kept telling me how wonderful it was, and I kept smiling thanking them for their kindness.
Walking out of the store, my recyclable bag filled with wholesome goodies clutched firmly under my arm, the sun was setting. The light was slowly becoming crepuscular, and the sky was ablaze in a vibrant explosion of sherbet ice-cream orange typically of summer sunsets in Texas in late August, and I was, like Patchouli girl and the Prada socialite, really, I mean reeeally digging my *Acqua di Giò Pour Homme*. Young, old, niche, designer, department store, boutique, these were now all abstractions that were all melting away like the last remnants of the day.
The only true limitations are those of the mind.
scentemental[/blue]
And I think others sense this, sense that your scent matches the persona you project, and thus is in no way out of place.
