Lauren Russler

The beginning of the end always starts with an abrupt clock reset, warning us of what feels like impending eternal sleep. We brace ourselves for months of unpredictable precipitation and subarctic temperatures. Halloween is officially over, but the spooky weather and gloom stall. Happy November, everyone.

Horror movies and haunted houses have never been my forte, not to mention the disastrous effects of daylight savings on my energy levels. I speak for the rest of the scaredy-cat community when I promise that you will never find me willingly graveyard ghost hunting or pouring my heart out to the Ouija board. Part of me wishes I felt less disturbed by the death signaled by raking leaves every fall, but I have always considered myself more Southern European than Southern Gothic anyway.

Attending Christian Orthodox services from time to time was a way my grandmother ensured my siblings and I kept in touch with our cultural background and our ancestors. While I grimaced at the graphic, painted fate of martyred saints like Saint John, the ritualistic kissing of various icons and the hushed tones of other visitors soothed me. Walking through a foggy field in autumn can certainly be described as a spiritual experience, but I feel more at ease standing in a cloud of smoke rising toward God than drifting aimlessly through an apocalyptic cloud of condensation.

Temple incense was one of my earliest exposures to fragrance, which evolved into thin, elongated candles placed in one of two registers once my motor skills were refined enough to stick them upright in the sand. The upper section of a shelf was a space to place candles representing the living, while the register beneath was lit in memorial of the deceased. We would kiss the wicks before we lit them, and our loved ones melted into obscurity with only the beeswax aroma remaining as physical evidence that any blessing took place.

A different developmental indicator that I was prepared to complete this spiritual task was coming to terms with the transience of human life. Visiting the graves of my father’s parents last summer, my grief was pacified by the fumes rising from a tin mug, reminding me of a greater presence that would take care of them.

Scent is a device representing more than the gap between earthly presence and heaven. My lack of worship has had a relatively insignificant influence on my philosophy until recently, but showering myself with perfume has moreover defined the stages of my life I no longer recognize: Consider the following a requiem for one sixth of how I used to occupy space.

On the theme of prayer, spirit and consciousness, I recently finished a set of Lancôme perfumes I was given for my 15th birthday, some of which had existential French names like Miracle, Hypnôse and La Vie est Belle. Five minis in five years, a perfect gift for someone who is both a perfume connoisseur and aspires to “be fruitful and multiply.” I too consider little perfumes my temporary bundle of joy at this point in my life, since I have now begun working away at my set of tiny Dolce and Gabbana (D&G) perfumes, which don’t seem to follow a unifying concept besides smelling pleasant.

My personal favorite bottle in the set is called Light Blue, which belongs to the marine category of a broader grouping of fresh fragrances. The unique blend of Granny Smith and sage complements the aquatic base of the spray, so opening the vial is like being struck in the face by a salty breeze from Mediterranean cliffs. The D&G advertisement for the fragrance featured an attractive couple on a boat to promote its gender-neutral associations, like its risqué campaign for Q and K, which advertised a man and a woman kissing to market a buildable fragrance created by the physical intimacy of two individuals.

Unfortunately, the default concentration of Light Blue is shorter-lasting, since only up to 15 percent of the solution is comprised of perfume oil, making it an eau de toilette. Hence, it needs to be reapplied, whereas an eau de parfum or similar (20 to 40 percent) lingers optimally and absorbs into moisturizers, becoming more fragrant and rich as it interacts with body heat.

Besides purchasing the more concentrated Light Blue rendition called Capri in Love, effective alternatives I have tried are a travel-sized spray of Acqua di Gioia that I shattered and spilled on my bathroom tiles at home (more like water of misery, I guess) and a full-sized mermaid version of Anna Sui Fantasia with hints of watery lychee and licorice whose neck with a siren motif was too large for me to bring to school. Any scent can also be trapped with a non-scented moisturizer, or one with a similar fragrance foundation applied before spraying any perfume.

Clearly, preferences for smell and packaging are highly individual. I don’t like breathing in woody scents since they remind me of decaying floorboards, and Gucci Bloom has one of my favorite advertising campaigns, but the actual fragrance reminds me too much of dandelion. Gourmand scents that almost taste like coffee and pastries make me nauseous, and let’s not even mention Dior Sauvage’s womanizer reputation online. Lately, I have stuck to mostly floral, citrus and fruity concepts that energize me with just the slightest sniff.

Inevitably, I foresee myself haunting my current Thierry Mugler Angel Nova profile as an elderly woman who has stubbornly adjusted to vanilla and accepted her sentencing to Chanel No. 5, like how I currently reminisce about the Thank U, Next Ariana Grande fragrance from my early teenage years since phasing out of a less sassy vibe.

Who says essential oils are the only form of aromatherapy? The smell-good coping skill has existed for eons to ease any transition but referring to all the varieties the seven layers of smell feels almost too scary and crass. I say from now on, Jesus take the (fragrance) wheel.