A few weeks ago, a date dared me to take off my "panties" at the Spotted Pig. I smirked then asked, "What do I get in return?" He said, "Anything." Without a moment of hesitation, I struck a deal for a bottle of Jo Malone — making me, officially, a perfume whore.
I've always believed a woman should have a signature scent. In high school, I wore Allure by Chanel, which I deftly stole from the Holyoke Mall; in college, I wore Sonia Rykiel because my British-gayish boyfriend said it was brilliant; in my terrible twenties, I wore Stella McCartney spritzed on stupid Intermix dresses (one whiff and I'm transported to Marquee); as a serious, more successful, thirtysomething, I am no longer sure what my fragrance fling should be.
So when I was invited to meet Sarah Horowitz, founder of Original Scent — a woman who, after listening to my tales of love and life, could essentially put me in a bottle — I was all about it.
I arrive, scentless, at a Hudson Hotel suite-slash-lab. We sit down next to dozens of vials, and Sarah — a warm, earthy Cali girl, who would never name drop Jennifer Garner or Jessica Biel, even though they are fans — starts asking personal questions. As I disrobe my soul ("Most days I wake up happy ... "), she pulls out test tubes.
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