It Smells Like MeTwice this week I have found myself in a bizarre, yet comfortable position. I hugged my ex-boyfriend and a good friend on two separate occasions and on each of these occasions, the person I was hugging smelled my head.
I'm short. Most normal sized people who get to hug me, get to see something I will never see save for maybe random photographs: the top of my head. And for some reason, these two people whom I adore, chose to smell this territory of my body that I can never explore in the same manner. Something about this gesture made me feel very safe. I remember smelling my nephew's head when he was a baby and wishing he would never grow up.
I like smell. It's my favorite sense. When I first moved into my new apartment, I told my friend, Ande, that I wanted my apartment to smell like me. I wanted to invite people over and have them say things like, "Gosh, I love the way this place smells."
Unfortunately, that is not to be right now. A week ago, I stayed out until the wee hours of the morning with my cousin and some friends drinking. In my drunken need to eat and sleep at the same time, I put some bread in the oven to toast and woke up a couple of hours later to an apartment full of smoke. Now, my place still smells faintly of charred carbohydrates. Perhaps my head smells like it, too.