I love doing quizzes that pigeonhole my personality based on very important and absolutely not arbitrary things. Things like what kind of dressing I put on my salad, if I put my left or right sock on first, or if my hormonal acne flares up on my forehead or on my left inner thigh.
I’ve been searching for some new fragrances to wear this summer and none of the articles were stereotypical enough. I hate not being told what kind of person I should be!
So, I decided to write one. Here, choose one (or five) fragrance(s), and I’ll tell you what kind of female you are.
The Girl Next Door loves fresh and green scents. Her Tinder profile says her hobbies are laughing, K-dramas, and travelling. She has an affliction called Wanderlust, and she’ll make sure you don’t forget this.
She likes flowers, but just to look at, not to keep. You’ll take her to Gardens by the Bay, and buy her an overpriced Gula Melaka ice cream.
You’ll ask if she wants to come over. She tells you she’s adventurous, but she is not the type of girl to go home with someone on the first date. Did she also mention she loves travelling?
She is wearing Versace Bright Crystal. She picked it up during a stopover in Paris. It’s a floral delight. Top notes are pomegranate, yuzu, and ice. The heart contains peony and magnolia. On the dry down, you’ll catch a whiff of succulents.
She’s not your regular bookworm, she’s a cool bookworm! She dresses in neutrals and jewel tones, drinks too much tea, and quotes Baudrillard. She prefers if you could dominate her intellectually, but sexual domination is fun too.
A perfect date for her? Drinking in a dark, quiet bar where you can banter for hours on end, then go back to yours to do the dirty. She’ll leave once morning comes.
When you awake she’s not going to be there, but you’ll see a sweet note and a copy of Nausea by Jean Paul Satre on your nightstand–her favourite book. The note reads, “Call me, I had a lot of fun”. She signs off with hugs and kisses.
You’ll make yourself a coffee. For some reason, you can still smell her on your sheets. The White Russian she had last night, her leather boots, the licorice candy she sneakily fed you with her mouth. It’s all there. She wore Black Opium by Yves Saint Laurent.
The Manic Pixie Dream Girl has got dyed hair–probably blue, pink, or green. She probably paints or makes ceramic bowls. She has a vinyl record collection, and she’ll make you listen to Sonic Youth the first time you visit her.
She’ll tell you she’s fallen in love with you on the third date. You’re not going to be scared, because you think you feel it too. She kisses you on the forehead after you make love. She’ll want to take you to a silent disco because she thinks you need to loosen up. She dances like nobody’s watching.
She can drink you to shame, and you don’t even mind that she’s an expensive date because she makes you feel alive, whatever that means.
When you’re cleaning up your room one hot afternoon, you find a lilac polka dot bra laid purposefully between some books on your desk. You pick it up. A fog of almond cookies, ivy leaves, and cinnamon-in-absinthe encases you. It’s Lolita Lempicka by Lolita Lempicka.
You meet her in a crowded speakeasy on a Thursday night. You notice her perfectly symmetrical lips first. They’re plump and inviting. She approaches you.
She’s going to kiss you on the neck, and whisper if you want to get out of here. Her hair smells like lavender. You say yes, and she leads you out by the belt. Eventually, you end up at her place—*ahem*, den.
Things are getting hot and heavy. She’s ripping your clothes off, and you’ve never felt a desire like this. She’s so enthusiastic, so passionate, so…hungry.
Her mouth starts to open, and you shudder in anticipation. But then it gets wider. Inhumanly wide. She grabs you with all of her eight legs (how have you not noticed?) before you can scream, much less run.
In minutes she’ll have devoured you, whole and alive. You’ve met a literal maneater.
You die under a blanket of leather, vanilla, and herbs. In your final moments, all you can think about is Jicky by Guerlain.
Cool girl is cool. Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is effortless. Cool girl doesn’t want to label the relationship—she doesn’t even want a ring.
Cool girl wakes up like that; eyelashes curled, lips pink, cheeks flushed, healthy glow on her cheekbones. You’ve never seen her bother with makeup. It’s au naturel, baby.
She drinks beer instead of cocktails. She’d rather eat pizza at home than go to a fancy restaurant. She laughs at your fart jokes. She never angers, not even when you’ve forgotten your anniversary, again. Cool girl’s performance of cool, facile femininity is nothing short of spectacular.
Then one day she disappears. Nobody knows where she is, not even you. And you’re punched in the face with a murder charge.
She’s left you a card under your pillow—the cover says, “Congratulations!”. There’s nothing written in it, but then you smell something. It’s exotic and paradisiacal; reminds you of when you vacationed in the Bahamas.
She’s taunting you. You smell lime, coconut, spicy ginger, jasmine. Her signature scent was Virgin Island Water by Creed.
At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what kind of girl I tell you you are, or what you should smell like, because you are a multi-faceted woman who can’t be defined in five short paragraphs or less.
Wear whatever you want, so long it makes you feel confident in who you are.
No, I did not find the love of my life here.
If you're going to watch out of FOMO.
Better hair days ahead.
Dark circles who?
