The Le Labo Fragrance Catalogue Taught Me How to Love
A smell is worth a thousand words. Well, technically 1,200, according to Google Docs
Scents can transport us back in time, hurtling us millions of years into the prehistoric past, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and the pristine, untouched oceans raged majestically. Most of the time, though, scents just transport us back to events we actually remember. A whiff of springtime jasmine can instantly drop me into the feeling of my first kiss all those many months ago. The unmistakable aroma of wood crackling in a fireplace evokes my fond memories of sitting around the living room on Christmas morning, waiting for my parents to come home.
Now, in my mature adulthood, freed from the shackles of the small-town life I left behind to pursue my improv career at the legendary Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, so many of my memories revolve around the earthy, androgynous fragrances in the Le Labo perfume catalogue. You know Le Labo, the charming little store in every hip neighborhood that sells the soap in your favorite trendy restaurant bathroom, candles, scented oils, crystalized dog urine amulets to ward off evil spirits, and lotions and creams so luxurious, you’d be embarrassed to masturbate with them.
Each one of these smells carries some significance for me and conjures up some vivid recollections that I simply cannot shake. If scents are truly the portal of the mind’s eye, then Le Labo is the VIP entrance, which you can only get through if you bring at least three girls.
It was on the smoking patio at my favorite wine bar. Her name was Marlena. Or maybe it was Pam. Names are not important. To me, her name was Passion, because she oozed it from every pore on her body. She had just lit a cigarette when the wind blew her hat off and flung it directly into my face. Quite a first impression, I must say. She leaned over, the cigarette dangling precariously from her mouth. “That’s my hat,” she mumbled with a mouth full of nicotine. “I know,” I said suavely and with complete confidence. “My husband got it for me at Madewell. Also, why are you sniffing me,” she inquired. The scent. The aroma. The heady combination of Australian sandalwood, papyrus, cardamom, violet and cedarwood. Whenever I smell Santal 33, I’m teleported back to that bar and am reminded of Brittany. Intoxicating.
Some mysteries are best left unsolved. Such is with the signature smell of Rose 31. Is that the cumin I smell? Is that amber? Is that Amber, my SoulCycle instructor? Amber, who always brings the heat with her workout playlists filled with contemporary hip-hop from some of today’s hottest artists. Never has she committed the faux pas of including a little-known album track or God forbid, a Taylor Swift song. Only Beyoncé, Ri-Ri, Cardi, and my girl Gaga. “Bangers only,” that’s Amber’s motto. The playlist is key for any spinning class, and Amber has not let me down once. The greatest mystery is how she gets the most out of me during a workout. An amulet of Rose 31 in her gym bag keeps Amber smelling as fresh as before she ever stepped foot on that bicycle.
For most, the floral notes of Ylang 49 conjure up visions of the sandy beaches of Tahiti. For me, all I see when I smell Ylang 49 is a Trader Joe’s parking lot. I bumped your Chevy Volt as I was backing out. “It’s fine,” you said. “It’s a lease.” That moment gave me a new lease...on life. I simply could not stand my insurance premium going up and your kindness spared me a burden no man should carry. The Ylang 49 marked you as sophisticated, sensual, and adventurous. The automotive kindness revealed you have a heart. Those words I will never forget: It’s fine. It’s a lease. God bless you.
Le Labo says that Neroli 36 is like charm in a bottle. But you, Skylar — my noble barista — you are charm personified. Every day, you have a smile for me. Every morning, you greet me with warmth. You know I’m Dave, not David. “David” sounds like a banker or a city councilman. “Dave” is cool and just likes to hang and watch Netflix true crime documentaries about Canadian serial killers who ask politely before they murder you.
Once, we did argue. What pain that was. I asked for room for milk. You withheld. Words were exchanged and feelings were damaged. But, not beyond repair. The next day, you offered me a free blackberry scone as recompense for your error. I apologized for raising my voice. I said I would be happy to read your screenplay. We hugged. In that moment, I took in the exquisite zest of the Neroli 36 shower gel. Some bonds cannot be broken.
When I take an Uber Pool, I jump straight into the deep end. As a man who craves insightful, challenging conversation, I adore those times just as the sun sets on a perfect Saturday, when the air is heavy with possibility and you want to save a couple bucks on your way home. Politics, art, feminist theory — no topic is out of bounds in an Uber Pool ride. “I just want to listen to music,” they might say, which is a perfect gateway to discussing whether or not Old Town Road is a country song. “I do not speak English” means you want to talk about how underfunded ESL education is in our public schools. Putting on your headphones is an invitation to describe all of my favorite podcasts. Oh, and excuse me for the smell. It’s a long ride and I couldn’t hold it. That’s why I brought my Palo Santo 14 home fragrance. The sacred notes of Palo Santo 14 can clear any negative disturbances and leave your Uber Pool ride born anew. Also, here’s a flyer for my improv show at UCB.