The Inherited Signal
If I could distill my childhood impressions of masculinity into a scent, it would smell like Old Spice cologne. That buoy-shaped, clay-colored bottle with a sailing ship logo was a fixture in our medicine cabinet. I can still see Dad craning towards the bathroom mirror, striped can of Barbasol on the ledge of the cast iron sink, and a chunky metal razor in his hand. Every shave ended with a splash of Old Spice on his cheeks and neck. Even today, that warm, oriental smell reminds me of my dad.
Your persona—the invisible signal you broadcast to the room—is built from seemingly minor choices, like a signature aftershave. This isn’t shallow; in a world filled with strangers, we use these data points to make quick decisions about people. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to function. My dad has been gone for a year, but the scent of Old Spice remains a tangible anchor. It is a piece of unmediated reality that even the sharpest digital image can’t replicate.
The Punch to the Nose
In addition to Old Spice, there was another scent that I associated with adult men. In the 1970s, the ‘7 & 7’—Seagram’s 7 and 7-Up—was the mixed drink of choice at many family celebrations. At many parties, clear plastic cups filled with amber-colored liquid and bubbles were scattered throughout the house. Once, when the adults weren’t looking, I picked up a half-filled cup and smelled it. The sharp, medicinal scent hit me like a punch to the nose. I knew that this was not a drink for kids. In that instant, my mind made an association with the scent of whiskey and the world of men—a world that was potent, slightly dangerous, and mature.
By age sixteen, I was knocking on the door of the adult world that I’d been locked out of years earlier. Toys and Nintendo games no longer mattered. Suddenly, I cared more about my appearance and making a good impression. I paid attention to the clothes I wore and what they communicated about me. Part of this image-building process involved choosing a signature fragrance. For me, that journey began at El Con Mall.
The Foley’s Counter
My cousin, Mike, introduced me to the world of fragrance in 1990. He wore Davidoff’s Cool Water, a fresh, aquatic scent that was nothing like the in-your-face masculine colognes my dad wore. Cool Water was Mike’s signature scent, and it inspired me to start looking for my own. My search began at Foley’s in El Con Mall. The first time I approached the counter of the fragrance department at Foley’s, I felt like a boy at a party again, surrounded by adults drinking 7 & 7s. I knew nothing about fragrances, so interactions with the sales staff left me feeling like a kid standing in his dad’s shoes.
Had I taken the easy way out, I could have opted for a fragrance that everyone in high school wore, such as Cool Water, Drakkar Noir, Fahrenheit, or Polo Green. I didn’t want to smell like everyone else, though. I’d like to say I persevered and continued my awkward experiment at the Foley’s fragrance department until I learned enough to make an informed choice, but that wasn’t the case. My insecurity got the best of me, and I avoided shopping for fragrances until I was in college.
The Kiosk Shortcut
My quest for a signature scent resumed in 1995. To avoid discomfort, however, I still avoided department store fragrance counters. In 1993, El Con debuted the “Pavilion”, an indoor street fair concept, in the northeast section of the mall. It featured a number of vendors’ carts and kiosks, one of which sold handcrafted fragrances. I liked the idea of having a fragrance that nobody else wore, so I got talked into buying one based on the name alone. The dealer assured me that it was unique and that in his country, this kind of fragrance signaled sophistication.
This was a shortcut—an attempt to be original while relying on someone else’s advice about what fragrance suited me best. Big mistake. I don’t recall the scent, but the first time I wore the fragrance to St. Ambrose, where I worked in the maintenance department, my co-workers asked, “Who is wearing perfume?” The first chance I got, I ran to the restroom in a frantic effort to wash it off. The thought of smelling like a woman was humiliating. I never wore that fragrance again.
The Decade of Silence
After the St. Ambrose debacle, I retreated again. I stayed ‘neutral,’ wearing no fragrance at all or borrowing from my older brother’s collection. It was another a shortcut; by wearing my brother’s scents, I wasn’t broadcasting my own signal—I was merely echoing his.
At some point in my late 20s, I overcame my anxiety and took the time to sample fragrances at a mall department store. That experiment led to the discovery of my first signature scent, Emporio Armani. I wore it for many years, but I would qualify it as a safe choice: It was not a mass-appealing scent that every other guy wore, but it was clearly within the mainstream of masculine fragrances.
The Physical Audit
Over time, my desire to explore the world of fragrance reemerged. That led to the discovery of many signature scents, including Thierry Mugler’s Pure Malt, a gourmand fragrance with a prominent whiskey note. Its black bottle features an amber-colored A-Men star, making the juice inside look like whiskey in a crystal glass. The scent—a blend of peat, alcohol, and fruit—has a warm, smoky, masculine edge. For me, this fragrance isn’t a concession or a safe choice. It represents the end of many years of taking shortcuts, and the beginning of a time in my life where I own the ground I stand on.
Old Spice and Cool Water: Two fragrances I like for different reasons, though neither qualifies as something I would call a signature scent. Finding a signature scent is a physical audit that cannot be faked. In a world where we can curate our identities through screens, the simple act of searching for a signature fragrance forces an unmediated confrontation with the self. It is an analog rite of passage that anyone can undertake—inevitably leading to a series of embarrassing failures and thrilling discoveries that eventually strip away the ‘safe’ defaults.
You aren’t just looking for a fragrance; you are looking for the moment where the invisible signal you broadcast finally matches the frequency of who you actually are.