It's a smell I only know as "my unwashed head." My nose burrowed deep inside my winter hat. I know of no other place it exits. But if I smelled it anywhere else, somehow I would know. I'd think, Ah yes, that's my head, all right, that's my unwashed skull and hair.
They say—or, well, I remember being told—that you can't notice your own scent. Each of us, clean, has our own odor, our own neutral, and it can be quite difficult, if not impossible, to pick out your own. But as soon as you add a little filth there is no mistaking it. Yourself. Or, that's what I've found. Yes, some combination of the dirt and the skin and the sweat and the fibers keeps my coming back for more.
I don't spend all day at my desk smelling my old hats. I'm not groping my musk in the bathroom. I am simply trying to understand what makes me me, to become better acquainted with all the things that I am, the inside and the out. Surely I cannot be alone in that. Surely you, too, have slid a finger in between your toes, a shirt sleeve under your nostril, and thought, There I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment