| Tomas Morato, Quezon City | 

Letting go, planned or unplanned, becomes inescapable when one hits forty. It’s not that one suddenly turns into an unloving, disengaged beast without rhyme or reason; it is more of realizing that one’s fangs are better to be used in cutting off things that are no longer pragmatic and sensible to keep.

It is not an easy affair, though. Some things are hard to cut off, even with the sharpest fangs. They are stubborn and seductive, often in the guise of the “I deserve it” or “I worked hard for it” justifications. I had almost fallen into that trap, hesitant to end my dalliance with fancy bags until I saw them lining up like unclaimed cadavers in my closet, cobwebbed and dusty.

Self-discipline is what whets the fangs. And so far, I have had hard-fought triumphs of letting go. Not until I come face to face with perfume, because whenever that happens, I become a toothless prey.

Perfume can effortlessly put my ready-to-kill fangs into a state of total worthlessness. It’s able to find my Achilles heel, and there is a huge possibility that it’s because I have always been a willing target. So even before the battle starts, I have already lost.

My apathy to escape from the spell of perfume has resulted in more than a hundred bottles of fused notes from different brands or houses, as cognoscenti call them. Occupying the mid-part of my closet, they look like babies in the nursery screaming out for my attention.

For someone who grew up with a great-grandmother fully bathed in floral scent every second of the day, I have always been under the impression that my hoarding is justifiable; it is deeply entrenched. And however edged the fangs are, they would always be blunt in cutting the habit off.

The truth is, I have a special relationship with each of my perfumes. They are vivid, scented memories encapsulated in bottles, reminders of the beauty of life in a world that has become a brutal beast. They are a staple of my soul. They make me feel I am human.

Or a fairy freely frolicking in woods flecked by budding blooms. Or a princess as delicate as well-kept china, her well-kempt hair flows like a sparkling river in her crease-free lavender gown.

And that’s another thing about perfume. It is a magic carpet ride that can transport any wishful to dazzling, unconquered places. It is a mystical elixir that one can spritz or sniff to transform oneself into a princess with a boyish charm, a brunette and voluptuous celebrity, or a kick-ass lady boss revered by all. It is the perfect vehicle to get away from the torments of the gagging inanities and insanities.

Perfume lets one remember and lets one forget. 

And so, I have made peace with the thought that perfume is something I cannot utterly slash from my system, even in my fifties or sixties or even in my grave. Letting fragrance go has never been an option, for how can I detach myself from something that makes me human, and a blonde bombshell?

Image from:

https://www.istockphoto.com/search/2/image?phrase=perfume+bottle+on+black