Thank God I Had That Nose Job

What happens when a renowned scent critic loses her sense of smell? For beauty adventuress Stephanie Darling, it was a golden opportunity to snare herself the perfect nose

THE FIRST TIME I really thought about owning a fragrance was at the age of 11. My brother and I were visiting my father, who was going to Europe on business, and he asked me if I wanted him to bring me back something. The fact he had even asked this question was pretty revolutionary, so I quickly asked if he could bring me some “channel perfume”. He laughed derisively and then corrected my pronunciation. I was mortified, but it was worth the humiliation when he turned up with a bottle of Chanel No. 5. And so the addiction began.

Intricately related to my love of all things fragrant was my obsession with my nose. It reminded me of my father’s, and every time I thought I had come to terms with it, there would be a sneaky little reminder. When my children were small — let’s face it, that’s when they are the harshest and truest critics, before they develop filters (oh, who am I kidding, that never happens) — they would say, “Mummy, you have a big nose.” So, even though more thoughtful souls would reassure me that my nose was “fine”, I never really believed them.

However, my nose, for all intents and purposes, always performed exceptionally well on the smelling front. I come from a long line of sniffers and I’ve become famous for my sense of smell. Our family is renowned for sniffing everything before we buy it, read it, taste it, go out with it … so you can imagine my horror when — at a fragrance showing during my time as a magazine beauty director — I discovered I basically couldn’t smell a damn thing. The first paddle-shaped test strip, which had been dipped in Penhaligon’s Bluebell eau de toilette (all bluebells, earth and moss with a hint of cinnamon, clove and galbanum), I just vaguely registered.