When my mum finally relented to allow me some form of beauty product it was scent that first made it into my home.
Lace by Yardley couldn’t be described as by first choice for perfume, but it was my only choice. Partly because my mother and grandmother collectively decided it was the most innocent scent they could think of. Mostly because it was sold in the local random discount shop for hardly anything.
It still lurks, I notice, in that section of Boots best described as “oh my god I didn’t realise they still made that”. Presumably someone is still buying it. That or the people at Yardley genuinely have more money than sense.
My mother also claimed she’d selected it due to the associations of lace with my home town. This argument I’m less convinced by.
It wasn’t my first choice but Lace’s powdery old lady smell is likely responsible for opening those initial olfactory doors for me. Smell has always been one of my better senses – my evolutionary ancestors couldn’t see or hear the predators coming but we could definitely smell them.
Lace was no predator, but it was a gateway. When gifted to me aged ten it was made clear that this was practice for the real thing. If I could follow the rules with this then I might, just might, get the real thing.
The rules were much like those for the make up. Wear only when permitted. Wear very little. The second rule was not hard to want to keep to, but was by the nature of the stubborn squirting function difficult to follow in practice. Like many a scent bottle in my life Lace seemed to have been designed like a slumbering volcano; nothing, nothing, nothing, EXPLOSION OF SCENT.
Despite ten year old me being fairly unimpressed with the choice current me would probably wear it again. At some point.