by Rob Perez
Columnist

It was a school morning. I had already been to the kids’ rooms once to rouse them from slumber. It was on my customary second visit, to encourage continuation, that I knew something fundamental had changed. It was like walking into a wall where before there was no wall. But here, now, there was very definitely something. A presence. A scent. And this scent nearly knocked me over. There was no mistaking where it was coming from. The boy had just turned fourteen. This was his birthday present. The young man now wears cologne.

The kid was told one squirt makes you smell good. But he wanted to smell better than good. He wanted to smell extraordinary. So he wasn’t going to stop at one squirt. Apparently, he went with six. And six squirts of Rasasi Hawas Ice indeed makes you smell extraordinary.

I was reminded of a French whorehouse. I’ve not been personally, but I understand it smells quite potent. But could it possibly be as potent as this? Could anything? He was still in his room and I was in the hall. The scent was coming through his door. Which was closed.

I wondered: Who is this extraordinary smell for? Girls? Not yet. Other boys? Don’t think so. But then that means he wants to smell like this for himself.

He gave us a list of colognes he wanted for his birthday. I did some digging and found out that each promises something different. Boys have questions. Marketing has answers. One scent is mysterious. You know what’s mysterious? Why you keep leaving your dirty socks in the living room. One says, I know my way around a yacht. Really? Your mom still drives you to the mall. One scent promises confidence. My question: Who decides what smells like confidence? Follow-up: What does confidence smell like, anyway?

But I don’t think he actually cares what it smells like. He’s not into the bergamot, floral, or sandalwood. Someone just told him this is what smells good. More importantly, someone told him these smells mean something. If you smell like this, you’re a certain kind of person.

As I was lamenting the impressionability of the fourteen-year-old boy, I remembered my own adolescence. When I turned fourteen, I too suddenly had to have a cologne. I had to have Drakkar Noir. Had to. Why? Because Billy Haardt told me I had to. Who told Billy Haardt? His older brother, Sean, I think.

But this didn’t start with me. A generation before, Joe Namath was selling Brut. There was Old Spice. Hai Karate. English Leather. Canoe. And, of course, the Aqua Velva Man.

I guess men have always wanted to smell like someone. Someone else.

Maybe that’s especially true at fourteen. You don’t know exactly who you are, so you’re willing to try some things on. I, myself, tried being mysterious for a spell. I gave it up because you can’t be mysterious and make jokes.

But as long as we’re going to allow a scent to tell us what we are, I’m in the market for a tobacco scent that says I’m the kind of guy who finishes my homework on time. Or possibly a coral scent that says I’m the sort of guy who will empty the dishwasher without anybody asking. Or maybe something musky that says I’m the strong and silent type who turns off a light when he leaves a room.

It was much later when I learned he didn’t have one scent. He had a collection that numbered in the double digits. He’s like Jason Bourne, with identities from a dozen nations. Whatever you throw at him, he’s ready. After-party with Drake? Ready. Courtside at the Lakers with Zendaya? Ready. Movie night with Haaland? Ready.

Maybe, in the end, cologne is a rite of passage. Baby steps toward an identity, real and imagined. And one day he’ll learn that one squirt is better than six. But for now, when I’m outside his room, I’ll just hustle. The thing is, I’m not sure what to do when it’s time to go to school and we have to get in the car.