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I have terrible eyesight, a below average ability to identify flavors (“oh, very dry,” I say of all wines, uncertain of any other descriptors), satisfactory yet selective hearing, and transient paresthesia in my legs from years of wearing skintight jeans during key developmental stages. Directly resulting?or so I’m convinced?from the inadequacy of four out of five of my senses is my excellent sense of smell, and so too my love of fragrance. I’m equipped to appreciate the nuances of scent, which is a small consolation for being so bad at most other things.
And so I hoard expensive perfumes, layer fragrances like a pro, stop and smell the flowers whenever possible, and can smell rain in the air before it comes as well as differentiate the smell of fresh pizza from reheated. This extreme sensitivity comes in handy, like when my boyfriend suggests that something may be burning and I’m able to confirm that it is not an electrical fire but rather just the smell the flat iron makes when it’s heating up, and also not so handy, like when I go to use a new bronzer and have to rule it out immediately based on the overpowering scent. Womp. This shouldn’t happen. Skin care frequently, understandably, carries some kind of fragrance, and that I can do, so long as it’s powered by essential oils or extracts and not made in a beaker. But when I open a powder compact and am immediately hit with a waft of perfume, or squeeze out some...