Perfume

And Femininity

I 

From 11 to 17, my pilgrimage into womanhood fell in timid step behind only the confident and comfortable Michelle. Growing up the eldest child meant I was afraid of anyone moderately older than me, so to my equally-floundering adolescent friends I looked for guidance forward into femininity. Michelle – with her threaded eyebrows, and her thongs, and her Sephora skincare, and her taste for classic rock – held her smoldering torch high.

In our best imitation of the movies, Michelle and I spent one vague afternoon flipping through magazines. When she held Prada Candy to my nose, I was suspended. A sweet scent made extra powdery by the magazine pages it was glued between, it was the first smell I ever coveted. At the time, we couldn’t fathom how to get our hands on the real deal, but were soon given the opportunity to shop in person on a supervised trip to Crabtree & Evelyn Outlet. 

Not yet threatened by the pressure to be individuals, we both chose the rose perfume. For $50 Michelle bought the bottle, and for slightly less I bought the solid. Each of us buzzing with the personhood a big purchase grants you at that age, we walked out of the store sure that we were Women. 

Her bottle ran out in a few months, and my solid still sits on my bathroom shelf. The pink enamel rose inlay has begun falling out, and the perfume has turned brown, but the smell of luxury remains. I use it from time to time. 

II

The truth is, somewhere in my childhood I developed a shyness about my desire for beauty and grace. Someone more dramatic than I might call it a deep-rooted shame. I’ve never been sure – even after all this writing – where it came from. 

Maybe it was my father’s value system of minimalism, practicality, resourcefulness. Walking into his house after school, I became self-conscious of my morning’s decisions, and wondered whether my mascara was a betrayal of our friendship founded on his principles. 

Maybe it was my mother’s own awkward relationship with beauty. For some reason, I always viewed femininity as something my mom had authority over but didn’t participate in. When she took me to RiteAid for a starter kit of makeup the summer before 7th grade, I was confused why she had to text her sister for a list of what to buy. I walked away with a modest pile of Covergirl, and the internet to show me how to use it. 

As my appearance fell less and less in her control, I could tell it was embarrassing for her when I got things wrong. But as I grew out of blind experimentation and into confident application of femininity, I watched my mother stretch and soften into her own, less afraid of it than before.

In my childhood, femininity was something I tried on to feel grown. It was a treat I gained the right to indulge in with age. Most enticingly, it was a form of artistic expression.

The more Woman I became, the more caution I employed in showing it. The world began to reveal its misogyny on a personal level. To seek beauty, I learned, was to abandon intelligence and strength, and therefore surrender respect. To this day, I show up to work in a black t-shirt and a bare face, hoping that at the very least I’ll be taken seriously. 

At 25, an internalized-misogynist in recovery, I have to consciously give myself permission to be girly, frivolous, high-maintenance. When I do step into my femininity, I feel with it the armored weight of rebellion. I wear stupid, impractical sunglasses inside because it makes me feel powerful. I keep my nails long because I like the way they emote. I maintain interest in astrology, pop divas, and reality tv. I actively engage men in conversations about these things, because I refuse to be the only one code-switching anymore. Around (straight) men, I think I’ve begun to view overt femininity as a form of intimidation. Where I’m not accepted as a peer, I wield my otherness against. 

Maybe my adulthood embracing of femininity isn’t any deeper than a new understanding of the kind of respect and opportunities it can gain you. Pretty privilege is a relatively new term for the age-old truth that attractive people are afforded significant social and economic advantages. I don’t think it’s above me to utilize my femininity where I can in attempt at power. Sometimes that means putting on a “natural” and “effortless” makeup look for work, and sometimes it means showing up as nurturing and emotionally available where I can’t be seen as strong or smart. 

I wish this half of me didn’t feel like a tool I had to wield in response to a patriarchal society. I’ve found free expression of femininity in queer community, but isn’t that still a sort of defiance? A declaration of identity? I miss the sparkling and mysterious and creative femininity that I knew as a child. I long for a femininity free of baggage.

III

Recently, I’ve regained an interest in perfume. I have the desire to buy something expensive and nice for myself, and to receive compliments when I’m out in the world.

This has me thinking a lot about what I already smell like. To sum: My body wash smells like birch and fresh water, supposedly. My new shampoo and conditioner smells chemically tropical – a vibe I’m afraid my northern European ancestry just can’t pull off. When I remember to wear it, my deodorant smells sharp and masculine, to match the armpits I haven’t fully shaved in three years. My leave-in conditioner smells intoxicating and sweet, and doesn’t last long. 

My hope is to reach the bottom of all these products, replace them with less scented versions, and make my true scent some rich-smelling perfume that sits heavy on my nightstand.  

I’m currently cycling through a few DedCool and Le Labo samples. Most of them are making me sick. My favorite so far I described upon first sniff as “doctor’s office.” Every few days I return to one of the rollerballs I already own as a sort of recalibration. Today I’m wearing Prada Candy. 

xoxo,

Jordan