Old geezers go to heaven...

Have you ever thought that a beloved fragrance might act as a much better advisor than many people would ever do? Have you ever radically changed your disposition on some burdensome crux after wearing a scent anew, especially when it's one you used to wear when you were somebody else? Have you ever felt that a perfume has what it takes to act as your personal lodestar and guide you safely through the Cyanean Rocks of life?

I have nearly 60 full bottle fragrances in my humble collection, along with 40 miniatures and 150 samples and decants. More than two thirds of my full bottles are discontinued fragrances and vintage formulations of still produced ones. Some of them as old as coming from the '70s. Some other claim more than a mere bottle's presence, with the one outnumbering them all of being Loulou with six of its gorgeous hexagonal vintage bottle strenghtening my collection's ranks. All six in 100ml and no, I won't sell any. This should not sound surprising coming from a certified clinical case of a vintage freak. However, what might sound unexpected coming from a man is that two thirds of my collection are actually feminine fragrances. But I guess that the plain fact of being a man suffices to explain this overwhelming majority, because what other memories can comfort a man more than the ones about erstwhile loves and lovers. Especially when they're all gone but not a single one of them forgotten. But that's not the point. The point is the strange ways in which some old fragrances work their magic when least expected.

A Christmas Carol of sorts.

Two years ago, around the same time as now, I got into a rather unusual swap. A very nice Parfumo lady, moved by my review of Russisch Leder by Johann Maria Farina gegenüber dem Jülichs-Platz (is this a name or what?), located one 100ml vintage bottle in a very unusual packaging.

Although I know the scent for almost 40 years, I had never seen this version before and despite a thourough online search I still haven't seen another one like mine. I won't repeat the reasons that this scent is so important to me, since they are explained in my review. I'll just say that because of these reasons and some everlasting nostalgia state of being it outshines every other masculine fragrance I've ever smelled. Anyway, the bottle costed 60€ and she was eager to buy it and send it to me and I could pay her through bank money transfer. If you're wondering why I simply didn't order it myself, the answer is that I don't have either a credit card or any kind of some paypal-like account, since the only deal I'd ever have with a bank would be of the kind that includes weapons and barking orders. The problem was that I was penniless when this Russian Leather came close to merge with my Greek skin. Thus I had no other choice than suggesting a swap with some fragrance of her wish list. Being a witty lady, she quickly understood that the only obstacle standing between Russisch Leder and me were my empty pockets. So she proposed to buy it for me and pay her whenever I'd be able to do so. I refused and insisted on giving her an immediate something in return. Even if this something would theoretically cost twice the price. I finally convinced her to accept one 100ml tester of these, which were sold for 200+€ at the time and yes, its picture concept somehow expresses my feelings about the said temples of fiscal worship mentioned a couple of lines before.

I just didn't care for the seemingly wrong price proportion. In my field money always finish a panting third when running in the same track with feelings, emotions and memories.

I received the bottle on Christmas Eve. I won't vex you with the maelstrom of feelings which crashed me upon smelling it again after so many years. Everyone who has stumbled on such a fair-haired boy whom (s)he thought was forever lost can easily understand what I'm talking about. During the family dinner on the same night, my mother and her two sisters couldn't help but notice that one of the diners was wearing something which reminded them very much of the fragrance their father used to wear. Being happy beyond words because someone remembered, I took the bottle out of my bag and placed it on the table. It worked like a psychic spell, generating an emotional careen and changing the atmosphere in a heartbeat. The three sisters gathered around the bottle and started examining it. In less than a minute they were fondling it while some sweet melancholy had softened their careworn faces. You could tell that they were enveloped in an invisible shroud of reminiscences, carrying them back to the time when they were young and beautiful women. They asked me if they could splash a couple of drops on them and I begged them to do it. They kept smelling their wrists for the rest of the dinner, giggling and chirping like drunk teenagers and looking oftentimes at the head of the table where my grandfather used to sit. When I left a few hours later I was sure that they all had the feeling that my grandfather was sitting next to them at the table that night. And I don't know if I should blame it on the freezing cold or the light snow flurry falling, but my eyes were kind of wet all the way back home...

Despite having the luxury to choose between nearly 250 fragrances to wear each day, I find myself using just a handful of classics more often than not, with Pino Silvestre, Brut, Tabac, Old Spice and Denim being my staples. Russisch Leder is too valuable to use (and I'm not talking moneywise), thus I rarely allow muself to spend a few drops on my hide. But when I do it, strange things begin to happen. Although such an olfactory group is nowhere to be found in the multifariousness of online perfume communities, I believe it's my "judgement scent". The one I wear every time I'm facing a crossroad and don't know which path to follow. It's like having a conversation with my grandfather and trusting his advices like evangels, for they were shaped through very hard times, including wars and other grueling straits. There's an old saying claiming that night is the best advisor, but I have come to realise that late night contemplating can be way more fruitful when seconded by some cherished scent of yore. Whether this fruitfullness requires some fruity scent in order to emerge is still under consideration. But I think that fruits, despite being delicious, are way too mirthful and sanguine to contribute decisively to any nightime envisagement.

I'm not succeptible to anything attempting to convince me into doing something. No advertising has ever talked me into buying its "miraculous" merchandise. These old scents however must have conditioned me in associating them with traits that seem to dwindle year by year. Maybe it's because these scents are nowadays considered trite and outmoded, just like the aforementioned traits. But for me, these scents carry the air of gallantry, honesty, chivalry and every other "outdated" quality that any given gentleman of auld lang syne had used to forge an adamant modus vivendi. After all not all ducks are sitting ones, as Carl Barks has so profoundly put it in an otherwise light-hearted story professedly addressed to kids.

Donald Duck's perpetual fiance, Daisy, in her everlasting struggle to be a socialite, receives an invitation for two, for a genteel masquerade ball. She asks Donald to surprise her, leaving him wandering what his disguise might be. And then...

His venue crumbles as soon as he enters the place. The posh attendants, thinking that the only place where knighthood belongs is a museum, keep jeering Donald, and are naturally craving to be infatuated with some more "upgraded" antics.

Donald, humiliated and much despised, retreats alone in another room with his avian heart broken, but returns to the ball room in a hurry upon hearing that some vanity show-off, which is considered a novelty compared to his moth-eaten ways, is about to happen.

Of course the grandiose "tamer" folds like a house of cards upon first roar and runs for dear life out of the room, jamming the door behind him and leaving the cage open and everyone in dread and panicked. And then...

The lions, befuddled by their arsenal's inefficiency against a full plate armor and receiving pestering blows from a rubber sword which was ridiculed a few minutes ago, retreat in the cage. The scorned relic has just saved the day. And then...

Well, my staple scents are usually treated in the exact same way Sir Donald was initially treated in this moving story. Superficially, scornfully and rudely. But no matter what the newfangled arrivistes of the fragrance lore might say, they are my shiny panoply, passed to me by heroes of my possible pasts. And they always save the day in the end.

This is the reason why in my life's odyssey the meticulously elaborated, albeit beguiling tunes sang by the modern perfume world sirens sound like a cacophony to my ears. I'd rather be buried under an avalanche of Pino Silvestre "cheesy" bottles than giving in to something with a pompous name and a ludicrous price, both of them inversely proportional to its real caliber. Some people call me a sentimental fool, but no one has ever called me a tergiversator. And this is why these old geezers will always be the sentinels guarding my impenetrable refuge. For loyalty is still momentous for some sentimental fools and can never be out of fashion, come what may.

Merry Christmas everybody...