Have you ever read Charles Baudelaire's poem La Chevelure (Hair)? It's chockfull of imagery of scented tresses which evoke the breadths and the widths of the earth in their sensuous emanations. Hair fragrance, inherent, can be lovely. Hair fragrance, added, can turn up the notch just so.
Although we perfume lovers often love to give a playful spritz or dab on our temple and nape, concern for the pernicious (apparently?) effect of certain ingredients, mostly alcohol, to the health of the hair itself has evolved into a plethora of hair mists on the market which caress our tresses like a luxurious caviar skincare cream would to our complexion. In that context, I just published an article on Fragrance.about.com with photos and info on the best hair fragrance mists which you can use on your hair without any concern for its well-being. You can find it on this link.
And Perfume Shrine being the more personal venue it is, just for the heck of it, please find below the original poem by Baudelaire, translated in English by PoemHunter.com
|Yvon LeMarlec via GoYouToKNow Tumblr|
O fleece, that down the neck waves to the nape!
O curls! O perfume nonchalant and rare!
O ecstasy! To fill this alcove shape
With memories that in these tresses sleep,
I would shake them like penions in the air!
Languorous Asia, burning Africa,
And a far world, defunct almost, absent,
Within your aromatic forest stay!
As other souls on music drift away,
Mine, O my love! still floats upon your scent.
I shall go there where, full of sap, both tree
And man swoon in the heat of the southern climates;
Strong tresses be the swell that carries me!
I dream upon your sea of amber
Of dazzling sails, of oarsmen, masts, and flames:
A sun-drenched and reverberating port,
Where I imbibe colour and sound and scent;
Where vessels, gliding through the gold and moiré,
Open their vast arms as they leave the shore
To clasp the pure and shimmering firmament.
I'll plunge my head, enamored of its pleasure,
In this black ocean where the other hides;
My subtle spirit then will know a measure
Of fertile idleness and fragrant leisure,
Lulled by the infinite rhythm of its tides!
Pavilion, of autumn-shadowed tresses spun,
You give me back the azure from afar;
And where the twisted locks are fringed with down
Lurk mingled odors I grow drunk upon
Of oil of coconut, of musk, and tar.
A long time! always! my hand in your hair
Will sow the stars of sapphire, pearl, ruby,
That you be never deaf to my desire,
My oasis and my gourd whence I aspire
To drink deep of the wine of memory.