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I had seen her so many times in movies and on tv: the elegant and confident female lead in her grand boudoir, misting herself with perfume before braving the day. What did she smell like? I used to wonder, dreaming up a cocktail of roses, jasmine, and gardenias, and sometimes a splash of orange for the more adventurous woman.
When the day came that I finally smelled the famous Chanel No. 5, I was gravely let down. At 13 years old, I believed it was my womanly duty and a rite of passage to experience its timeless aroma in the hope that it would immediately command the respect and admiration of my peers. A visit to the department store fragrance counter required a well-planned outfit, finished with “special occasion” earrings and the nearest-to-nude pink nail polish I owned. I approached the counter, ambitiously hoping to be greeted by the salesclerk, but swiftly disengaging any and all eye contact. Thank god! – the testers were out! I spied the bottle of the original amber blend, lifted it from its tray with the deftness of Indiana Jones, and cautiously sprayed once at my neck, then twice at my neck. Oops - three times at my neck, for the nozzle was stiff. Replacing the bottle, I flicked my hair over my shoulder and promptly left the premises, reeking of the stuff, confident I’d grow into it. Grace and sophistication was within reach.
But this was not Chanel No. 5.
This might as well have been Willy Wonka’s Never-ending Scent Fragrance - the name had rubbed off years ago. It was ancient, coming to me as a Christmas gift the year I learned I didn’t like Chanel, and despite countless sprays in preparation for an “occasion,” it simply wouldn’t run out. It was some attempt at a vanilla floral mix that had no place on a grown woman, and no staying power, barely leaving a trace an hour after application. Why did I still have this?
My hands had now become trained to grab the bottle and spritz my neck and wrist, holding onto the tiniest shred of hope that it might, somehow, transform me into the woman of my dreams.