musth also must (n.)
An annual period of heightened aggressiveness and sexual activity in male elephants, usually signaled by a strong release of pheromones, during which violent frenzies occur.
[Urdu "mast", from Persian "drunk".]
I stand in the Men's Fragrance department of Filene's, totally out of my depth. Choosing a cologne is not for the faint of heart. Some men can do it; others can't. I can't. Smelling good requires taste, tact and a sense of joi de vivre - all qualities I conspicuously lack.
The way I see it, when choosing a new fragrance, you have three main options:
1) You can ask your wife or girlfriend to pick one out for you. On the surface, this seems like a pretty good idea. Let's face it - men like to be neat and well-groomed, but 90-95% of the reason a guy wears cologne is to attract women. If you had a girlfriend, you wouldn't be shopping for cologne in the first place.
But just for the sake of argument, let's say that you DO have a ladyfriend willing to shop for you. She knows just as well as you do what you want cologne for. Do you really think she's going to go out of her way to make you attractive to other women? Any suggestions from her in this regard should probably be greeted with considerable caution.
2) You can share an apartment with a gay man of impeccable taste, wait until he moves out, then rummage through the bathroom trash can for almost spent bottles of cologne. (Granted, this is more easily said than done, but it once netted me a year's worth of fantastic cologne.)
3) You can shove a big handful of money at the girl behind the Men's Fragrance counter at a department store and say, "Don't hurt me." You'll definitely walk out of the store with a bottle of SOMETHING, but you may no longer be able to send your children to college.
Today however, I have decided to take my life into my own hands and try to choose a fragrance on my own. As I look over the bottles, tubes, flasks and vials that line the counter, I begin to suspect that this might have been a rash decision.
I approach the first cologne on the counter, Tommy Hilfiger's modestly named Tommy. I pick up the tester bottle and gingerly sniff the nozzle. I'm pleasantly surprised; it's not half-bad. Unfortunately, I know that I would never be able to look myself in the eye while shaving if I knew I was about to put on a cologne called Tommy, so I move on.
It quickly becomes apparent that I'm pickier than I'd thought:
Obsession For Men and Amore Eterno are both pretty good, but I'm put off by the names. Amore Eterno sounds like an smutty Italian movie - something I'm theoretically in favor of, but not something I want going on on my neck. Obsession For Men just seems untruthful - an obsession for men is not a cologne; it's the '69 Mets or a perfect thin-crust pizza.
Polo - I'd rather hit myself over the head with a mallet than wear this cologne.
I really like Safari, but I could buy a black-market kidney for less than a bottle of this stuff.
There are many, many scents that are just too absurd to wear - Drakkar Noir (which is a lot of fun to say but sounds like a French supervillian), Candies for Men, Joop ("Joop"?), Platinum Egoiste and Curve, which comes in a child's sand pail.
Lucky You smells ok, but seems just a bit too self-congratulatory.
I have a lot of hope for Latitude/Longitude. It looks promising. It sounds promising. Unfortunately, it smells like Truman Capote.
Head and shoulders above all the others however, is the frighteningly named Le Male. This is a FANTASTIC-smelling cologne - musky, spicy and yet somehow fresh-smelling. One whiff tells me that this is the fragrance for me. Tragically however, it comes in a Parisian glass bottle shaped like a man's torso, complete with codpiece. One look at this bottle and I know that I am not part of the market demographic that this product was aimed at.
It is at this point that I decide to throw myself on the mercy of the sales clerks. Fortunately, one of them is a middle-aged man who is sympathetic to my I'm-not-gay-enough-to-wear-this dilemma. He makes a few suggestions, but between us, we are still unable to find a cologne I can live with. He decides to consult the leggy, Bosnian sales associate who is working with him.
"Hey Nadia," he calls to her, "what's your favorite men's cologne?"
I have to confess that I don't catch her answer; her voice is so husky and exotic that the blood rushes away from my head: Tony Maki, Bob Maki, Milan Maki - something that sounds like a type of sushi anyway.
"Oh great!" says my guy, looking around. "Where is it?"
"Oh, WE don't sell it!" she replies with a shrug.
I start to think about hiding a bottle of Le Male in my sock drawer.
