Thursday Scent Log: Citrus on Skin, Roudnitska on the Brain

Happy Almost-Friday to the noses who know. It’s World Children’s Day and World Philosophy Day, which feels about right for perfume: one part play, one part existential puzzle. I’m traveling, so I’m technically commando, just a palmful of DIY lotion melting on my wrists, a quick blend of ylang ylang and sweet orange. It’s the stripped-back t-shirt of scent, warm skin plus citrus pith, just enough to keep me company between gates.

But my brain is in the 1970s, chasing a ghost I drained long ago: Dior-Dior by Edmond Roudnitska. If philosophy had a top note, it might smell like that opening snap of green. Think galbanum’s blade against a dewy bouquet, narcissus and hyacinth lifting in cool light, a touch of soap without the squeak. Then comes the hush of moss and woods, a drydown that doesn’t preach. It just lingers, right where your scarf catches your breath.

I’ve always thought Dior-Dior feels like a sunny guitar duet. Maybe it’s today’s birthday roll call nudging me there. Imagine Duane Allman playing with Dickey Betts on Blue Sky, notes braiding and unbraiding, clean air and clear tone. That’s the Roudnitska touch. Precision without sterility. Emotion without syrup. A structure you can almost see, but never fully name.

The calendar adds its own chorus. Nadine Gordimer makes me think of inky violets and bookpaper. June Christy suggests a satin aldehydic hush, a nightclub whisper held just off the microphone. Dr. John brings a humid resin, something smoky with a bayou’s shrug. I’m not wearing any of that today, but the imagination is better than any duty-free lineup. Scent is remembering forward.

Tomorrow I’ll honor vintage properly, bottle in hand, because some loves deserve to be sprayed with both wrists. For now, it’s lotion and longing, a carry-on of citrus and a head full of green florals. If you know Dior-Dior, you know the ache. If you don’t, picture a garden in perfect light where nothing begs for your attention yet everything gets it. That’s the trick. That’s the spell. That’s Roudnitska.