I basically called my mom for help. Except when I say mom, I mean an esthetician.
My signature scent bears the name of the house of Olsen. Before I submitted this piece, I bought two more bottles.
You see, my perfume, Mary-Kate and Ashley Coast to Coast LA, is discontinued. It has been for at least five years, maybe more, since around the time the Olsens began their voodoo campaign to make us forget they'd been baby TV stars by appearing at the Met Gala and winning CFDA awards.
This perfume originated during their years making straight-to-DVD videos about exotic vacations, where they never had parents but there were always two cute boys around to facilitate hijinks.
For many years, you could find Coast to Coast LA in just about every big-box retailer; the scent originated as part of the eponymous line the Olsens developed with Walmart. Now, I must skulk about the Internet to find sites that sell overstock of discontinued fragrances, and I take pains to erase my history after the furtive transaction clears.
This magical elixir smells like honeysuckle, a scent I find even more, shall we say, refined perfumers have trouble with. This one conjures up the flowers growing within the hedge that lined my Tennessee backyard growing up. Then it fades, gently, into the smell of sun-warmed skin after a day at the beach; a little salty, a little sweet, a tad musky.
Recently, I asked my most discerning man-friend to take a whiff and he picked up on the beachiness right away. Then I told him what it was and he laughed at me for about an hour. My friend with benefits told me a few weeks ago that I smelled like the essence of girl. I left him in the dark about the origin of that essence.
It has taken me many years to accept that this bottle I picked up for the first time a decade ago in a Claire's on Broadway is my signature scent. I own and wear other scents--the kind meant for adults. I even heard recently that Mary-Kate and Ashley, now adults themselves at 26, will develop a new fragrance with Sephora under their Elizabeth & James label. You bet I'll be first in line to sample it; the ladies know their perfume.
But I'm also guessing it will join the other fancy bottles gathering dust as they shield the simple cube-shaped glass vessel of baby-blue juice atop my bureau.
What's your most embarrassing beauty product, and to what lengths do you go to keep it a secret?