Wind Song Prince Matchabelli 1952 Cologne
1
Wind Song — Prince Matchabelli: One to Grow With
Wind Song was the first perfume I ever got as a gift. I think I was around twelve with puberty in full swing. My mother, in a desperate attempt to make her gender nonconforming tomboy daughter more ladylike, bought me an aerosol body spray.
I loathed it. It was heavily chemical, unbearably strong, and to my young nose smelled like a church lady with orange peels under her fingernails. Worst of all, it was high femme and old fashioned! Unforgivable sins! Especially when you're twelve and desperately trying to keep from being shoved in a box you don't belong inside. Nothing will make you hate something quite so much as being forced into it.
Even now, this gift stands as a testament to how little my mom understood me at that age. How was I supposed to get into water balloon fights while smelling like this? Who did wheelies on a mountain bike wearing Wind Song? Play baseball? In Wind Song?! Forget it!
Bad enough boys I'd grown up with were starting to act weird and hostile, treating me like an alien thing instead of their friend; that I suddenly had to stop jumping rope on the playground because I became a DD overnight; that adult men old enough to be my grandfather were starting to hit on me if I ventured into public alone; that I got catcalled on the street whenever I wore even a modest dress for church.
Did I really need to add ANOTHER mark of obvious femininity to what was already happening against my will?
"But mooom! Nobody will take me seriously!!"
I was a Tommy Girl, at best. Besides, the most enticing fragrances I had ever encountered in my life up to that point were samples of Far Away, Cool Water and Angel. If I had to be a Young Lady, and smell like one, I wanted to be a confident Jessica Rabbit or a sporty Lola Bunny. Delicate old Wind Song was not the vibe!
So, I walked around with that bad impression of Wind Song for a long time. Not fair to the perfume, but sadly unavoidable. It was not the scent I needed then, and didn't fit who I was, or even who I would become for a long, long time. Wind Song was gentle and inviting, when I wanted -- NEEDED -- armor to survive the agonizing transition to adulthood, and the first few years of figuring out what kind of person I planned to be.
Well, I'm older now. Maybe not wiser, but MUCH less worried about chafing against gender roles I don't fit. I'm comfortably settled between femme and butch, content to wander from one side of the scale to the other - from tea dresses and heels to mohawks and leather jackets - depending on mood. Enjoying pretty, classically "feminine" things no longer feels like a devastating existential threat. I haven't laughed nervously and shivered when some asshole dude was acting gross at me in years.
I've figured out who I am, mostly. And now I realize that Wind Song is gorgeous, timeless and complex. I'm finally mature enough to understand her and appreciate her.
She's gentle as a whisper, intimate as a caress, and sturdy as an oak. A clean orange floral, rooted in spice and woods. Part expensive, milky guest soap, part hope chest, part cup of tea: particularly Orange Pekoe, Constant Comment or Mandarin Orange Spice. It's all there, and it unveils itself note by note as the hours wear on.
I've been trying a lot of vintage perfumes lately, learning to love all the different trends in perfumery. Some are unapologetically sultry (Tabu, Youth Dew, Shalimar), some are innocent and girlish (Royal Violets, English Rose), and some are sharply sophisticated (Arpege, Emeraude)...
Wind Song defies fitting into any one of those categories. She's everything at once. The longer I wear her, the more I love her. I can't even imagine how much prettier a vintage bottle must be.
So...thanks mom, I guess. You were right. (Sort of! Eventually!)
-- This review previously appeared on another site under the name "PrincessPrickleson." That's me! I'm moving my collection to Parfumo.
I loathed it. It was heavily chemical, unbearably strong, and to my young nose smelled like a church lady with orange peels under her fingernails. Worst of all, it was high femme and old fashioned! Unforgivable sins! Especially when you're twelve and desperately trying to keep from being shoved in a box you don't belong inside. Nothing will make you hate something quite so much as being forced into it.
Even now, this gift stands as a testament to how little my mom understood me at that age. How was I supposed to get into water balloon fights while smelling like this? Who did wheelies on a mountain bike wearing Wind Song? Play baseball? In Wind Song?! Forget it!
Bad enough boys I'd grown up with were starting to act weird and hostile, treating me like an alien thing instead of their friend; that I suddenly had to stop jumping rope on the playground because I became a DD overnight; that adult men old enough to be my grandfather were starting to hit on me if I ventured into public alone; that I got catcalled on the street whenever I wore even a modest dress for church.
Did I really need to add ANOTHER mark of obvious femininity to what was already happening against my will?
"But mooom! Nobody will take me seriously!!"
I was a Tommy Girl, at best. Besides, the most enticing fragrances I had ever encountered in my life up to that point were samples of Far Away, Cool Water and Angel. If I had to be a Young Lady, and smell like one, I wanted to be a confident Jessica Rabbit or a sporty Lola Bunny. Delicate old Wind Song was not the vibe!
So, I walked around with that bad impression of Wind Song for a long time. Not fair to the perfume, but sadly unavoidable. It was not the scent I needed then, and didn't fit who I was, or even who I would become for a long, long time. Wind Song was gentle and inviting, when I wanted -- NEEDED -- armor to survive the agonizing transition to adulthood, and the first few years of figuring out what kind of person I planned to be.
Well, I'm older now. Maybe not wiser, but MUCH less worried about chafing against gender roles I don't fit. I'm comfortably settled between femme and butch, content to wander from one side of the scale to the other - from tea dresses and heels to mohawks and leather jackets - depending on mood. Enjoying pretty, classically "feminine" things no longer feels like a devastating existential threat. I haven't laughed nervously and shivered when some asshole dude was acting gross at me in years.
I've figured out who I am, mostly. And now I realize that Wind Song is gorgeous, timeless and complex. I'm finally mature enough to understand her and appreciate her.
She's gentle as a whisper, intimate as a caress, and sturdy as an oak. A clean orange floral, rooted in spice and woods. Part expensive, milky guest soap, part hope chest, part cup of tea: particularly Orange Pekoe, Constant Comment or Mandarin Orange Spice. It's all there, and it unveils itself note by note as the hours wear on.
I've been trying a lot of vintage perfumes lately, learning to love all the different trends in perfumery. Some are unapologetically sultry (Tabu, Youth Dew, Shalimar), some are innocent and girlish (Royal Violets, English Rose), and some are sharply sophisticated (Arpege, Emeraude)...
Wind Song defies fitting into any one of those categories. She's everything at once. The longer I wear her, the more I love her. I can't even imagine how much prettier a vintage bottle must be.
So...thanks mom, I guess. You were right. (Sort of! Eventually!)
-- This review previously appeared on another site under the name "PrincessPrickleson." That's me! I'm moving my collection to Parfumo.