![Byrehoe]()
Byrehoe
2
plastic static
Melancholy solar musk. Act 1: honeydew balm. Act 2: beach ball static. Act 3: hot sand sugar cookie-ing to oiled skin. The plastic and sunscreen smell true to life, but don’t sleep on the choya nakh (roasted seashell). I first encountered this note in RdF’s Nitesurf Neroli and it’s become a fast favourite – gritty, mineral, toasty. But I don’t get a Malibu Barbie dreamscape from Holy Hell. There’s something sad about this beach day. You’re reading Plath on the beach, uncaring if you burn. You’re watching The Florida Project, alone by the pool. It's the scent of beach rotting: sand, sunscreen, and bare skin baking on an inflatable flamingo. Longevity hangs around a wistful four hours on my skin with light sillage. Siri, play Summertime Sadness again.
Mental Snapshot: Every summer in college I’d weekend at a dear friend’s beach house, on a sleepy stretch of the Ocean City boardwalk. It was an old clapboard beauty, tenderly preserved: chintz wallpaper, Tiffany lamps, clawfoot tub. We cried in the attic bedroom, sunburnt and sticky with funnel cake, when her parents broke they’d put it up for sale.
tl;dr: last day at the beach house