When I was in my late teens, (what seems many moons ago – but I won’t say exactly how many), I used to wear Coco Mademoiselle: A heady chypre fragrance not for the faint of heart. I mean, it’s called ‘Mademoiselle’ for a reason. The bottle and elegant label alone inveigle a lady sitting at her dressing table, slightly careening her head to the left as she bares her neck and clavicle to a dose of the heady fragrance which tenuously settles upon her exposed skin and satin dressing gown. Perhaps this dream, decades away from my young self, was the reason I lusted after it. It, or rather, the idea of it, was more grown up than I was. I was assuming the woman I might become. Though perhaps I was premature to my own self via scent. The subtleties of fragrance of persona were lost on me, but made obvious by comments of friends who would wonder aloud whose grandma I’d stolen my perfume from. I chose not to care as I sat in a room clouded with Calgon. What did I mind? I felt, daring, opulent, extravagant.