I am not one for the barbers ( I have actually had a phobia of getting my hair cut my entire life), but after a pub lunch in Pimlico, on the spur of the moment, I decided to pop in to a place on the corner of the road – all tattoos, bikers, ZZ Top and Guns N Roses – to have a quick hair cut and beard trim.
The stylist was from my neck of the woods – Birmingham – and was as beautiful as a woodland satyr: piercing blue wolf eyes, lanky, floppy indie boy hair, and as the d and I sat down to beers ( since when do you get beer at the barber’s? I have been in the wrong country for too long ) we discussed horror movies, Japan, and what to do about my conservative visuals ( only Burning Bush is wild and wears anything ……… I myself am boring and staid fashion-wise in the extreme).
He smelled really nice. Typical – blue sports fragrance- but not intrusive, nor abrasive, not staggeringly brutalizing your senses like so many I have come across: I assumed it was just some supermarket body spray but was intrigued enough to ask him about it eventually, and it was Versace’s Eros.
We havejust got back to the flat and his smell is all over me. I can smell myself and him on my clothes and skin, like a forty minute infatuation that lingers on the body like an imaginary kiss. And I think this is what perfume is : even if the scent in question is not a masterpiece (which this unquestionably isn’t), if at the very least it is balanced and well made, and suits the skin of the individual wearing it, it seeps into your consciousness and bloodstream….,, the momentary pleasures of real, and spontaneous, human interaction.