It had been such a nice conversation until then -- thoughtful discussion of the upcoming five-nation nuclear disarmament talks, Lefty's Winged Foot collapse, and Saddam's gracious offer to take back his government and restore some much-needed order to Iraq. I never saw the cologne thing coming.
"Don't you love a man who wears just the right scent?" said one of the wives at the table. Mysteriously, the speaker turned out to be my own wife.
"Oh, I really do," agreed another spouse, pointing out that she buys her husband a special cologne available only in Russia, a pricey scent called "Tsar" that evidently makes him feel like a bearded despot on his leafy block in The National.
"My husband used to wear the sexiest cologne," my wife continued. "It was spicy, kind of earthy too, with a hint of citrus. Very attractive."
Out of foolish curiosity, I asked which scent or husband she meant. She's had an even pair of us thus far, and I happen to be the second act of her one-woman marital play.
"You," she declared. "Don't you remember that wonderful French or Italian cologne you used to wear when we were dating?"
"Not possible," I said, pointing out that I've basically worn the same cheap after-shave since Jerry Ford was falling down the steps of Air Force One. It's called Old Spice and is available wherever cheap male bathroom stuff is sold.
"On, no," she came back. "A woman is never wrong about these things. I'm certain it was you and I'm certain it was either Italian or French cologne. "
Did I mention that this awkward revelation occurred the night after our wedding anni-versary, during which I took my wife to the front porch of the Pine Crest Inn to have a cold beer and watch the rain fall and chat with Marmalade the cat?
It's simple moments like these, I find, that make a marriage complete, though I think perhaps my wife had something a little more exciting in mind, like dinner and a movie. Last year, I splurged and bought her a pair of matching rocking chairs the resort was unloading at a fire-sale price, thoughtfully broken in by several thousand strangers during the 105th U.S. Open Championship. She had yet to sit in hers.
"A man's scent is very important," chipped in the wife who likes her husband to smell like a dead dynastic ruler of forgotten Russia. "It's his olfactory signature." She glanced in my direction and added, "It tells a lot about who you really are."
"I have to wear track shoes when I put Tsar on," my friend agreed, pointing out that the women who come to his village shop never fail to ask what scent he's wearing. He made it sound like they chase him around the building with a large butterfly net.
"Would you like me to bring you a bottle of Tsar from Russia?" his wife graciously offered.
"No, thanks," I said, getting the hint from all sides. "I'll get my own olfactory signature first thing tomorrow."
Field Research
Before setting off to the cosmetic counter at Belk, however, I conducted a bit of important field research on the subject, asking several random women of the Sandhills their true feelings about the bottled scent of a man. The thought of giving up my Old Spice after all these years made me feel as nostalgic as Saddam Hussein must feel for his old job.
Neighbor Jeanne: "The only thing worse than a man who wears the wrong cologne or not enough cologne is a man who wears too much of anything -- like whatever you're wearing this very moment, I'm afraid. What is that, honey, Sweaty Evening in Vass? Eau du Fishing Hole?"
Older Woman buying lettuce and cherry tomatoes at Fresh Market: "Probably so, but not half as important as the perfume you buy her. Trust me, dear, if you buy her the right scent, it won't matter what you smell like."
Friend's Wife, a hotshot lady lawyer: "The sense of smell is the most powerful of all human senses. Did you know that recent studies indicate a woman's sense of smell is approximately twice as powerful as a man's?
"Our hearing is generally better too, by the way, and almost half of men are technically colorblind, which is rare in women. We can reproduce and live, on average, 8.2 years longer than our husbands. So you tell me which sex is the superior part of the species."
Right. Enough field research, mates.
Eau de Mowed Lawn
At Belk, salesperson Pam Hinson politely smiled when I informed her I was in search of a new scent that said a lot about who I really am -- possibly something with a foreign accent.
I half expected her to double over with laughter and suggest Liquid Deer Fence, but she led me to the Chanel counter and presented a bottle called "Allure."
"It's crisp, fresh, with deep dark sexy undertones and a thrilling finish," she explained, misting it onto a little cardboard tab she elegantly waved though the air.
I gave it a collegial whiff. Call me an olfactory dropout, but "Allure" smelled like something you might accidentally step in while crossing a West End peach orchard where cows have recently been grazing.
Next we tried "Pour Monsieur" and "Platinum Egoiste." Pam, a trained Chanel representative, explained that the former was a "strong, masculine scent for today's civilized man," while the second was a "fresh, invigorating scent for the passionate and romantic man." Her husband Ken, she added, preferred the second Chanel scent, the big romantic lug.
"Does he have to wear track shoes around the house?" I wondered.
"No. But he adores this cologne," she said. "Then again, he'd better. It's my favorite."
Her point didn't go unnoticed. I asked Pam who exactly buys these pricey men's fragrances -- was it men or women or women for their men?
"Lots of wives insist on buying their husbands' colognes. Let's face it -- they're the ones who have to smell it. But lots of guys of all ages are starting to buy it, too. We get men from 15 to 80 in here. Cologne is very popular right now. Sean Jean, for example, is very hot with the teenage crowd. We sold out in two days at Valentine's Day."
She offered me a discreet smell of something called "Unforgivable."
"Do you know Sean Jean?"
I admitted that I'd never had the pleasure. His real name turned out to be Puff Daddy, the gangster rapper, or maybe it was the other way around. In either case, Sean Jean's hot new fragrance turned out to be about as discreet as a hot new stolen car. To wear it home would be unforgivable.
We moved on to several other popular brands. Guess Man offered "Style and Attitude, hints of Italian Bergamot, green apple, and fresh ozone," while Burberry Brit was a promising "woodsy, outdoor, very real" scent that put a bloke in mind of a summer day in Regent's Park. The aging yardman in me also rather fancied Lacoste's new fragrance, especially after Pam explained, "I think it smells like you just mowed the lawn."
A Slap, Slap Kind of Guy
My teenage daughter suddenly appeared, the same clever girl who uses her father's old never-touched gift colognes as bathroom air fresheners.
She insisted I try Polo "Black" and sprayed me with the sample bottle the way a postman might spray an annoying dog with a can of Mace.
"Isn't that fantastic?" she declared, waiting for my reaction.
"Sure is, sweetie," I agreed, blinking through a scented cloud, wondering if I might suffer a violent allergic reaction, reminded of what my friend Grumpy Morrison said about cologne in general: "Works just fine. Especially if you never use it."
Pam picked up on this vibe and ushered me over to the Aramis section.
"This is a very traditional scent," she said. "Older men love it. They'd buy it by the gallon if you could." She couldn't resist a tiny smile. "It's for your basic after-shave kind of man who is just, well, stepping up to cologne, real slap, slap kind of guys."
After a while, truthfully, one pricey men's fragrance began to smell like the next to this man's nose. Maybe in the hunt for an olfactory signature that said who I really am, I'm just a plain nobody -- not a Czar, not a platinum ego, not even a summer day on a freshly mowed lawn. At best, I may just be a slap, slap kind of guy born to wear Old Spice by the gallon.
Discriminating Nose
"I like your new cologne," my wife said when she got a whiff of the new-smelling me. We were sitting together in our anniversary rocking chairs shortly before I took her out to a very expensive dinner and movie.
"How did you choose it?"
"With a very discriminating nose," I replied. I didn't have the courage to tell her the discriminating nose belonged to my daughter Maggie. Before leaving the store, she chose something called Armani Code, a suave new Italian fragrance that made me think that since I'm stepping up I probably ought to buy myself something in a little red sports car next.
Just to be on the safe side, though, I went back and bought my bride the latest fragrance from Chanel. It's called "Chance" and she positively loved it, proving she is not only the superior part of the species after all but willing to forgive her forgetful, colorblind husband for forgetting their anniversary and graciously extend him a second one.
Award-winning author Jim Dodson, The Pilot's writer-in-residence, can be reached at jasdodson@earthlink.net.
