Byronic Hero

in Paris

There is a particular kind of delusion that arrives after a heatwave. Mine was believing that 35 degrees in the shade qualified as pleasant weather. Naively, I thought that would be enough to reclaim the city after days of involuntary isolation indoors.

Not long after, I accidentally put the full customer service at Dover Street Market Parfums to the test by almost passing out. It was a 10/10 experience and it included complimentary Evian water and an Artek Tabouret. By then, my face had taken on the color of the ripest tomato somewhere in Southern Italy. I apologized and thanked the employees so many times that I eventually lost count. Every few minutes, the staff would peek around a corner like characters in a comic strip to make sure I was still conscious, asking with genuine concern whether I was feeling any better or if they should call 911 after all. I kept forcing a smile, and did my very best to look less like someone on the verge of collapsing.

Meanwhile, customers drifted past me in full denim, perfectly applied makeup, and immaculate composure. I wasn’t sure if I was already hallucinating. There is something profoundly humbling about becoming the afternoon’s main event simply because your body has surrendered to the heat.

About forty-five minutes later – after my dear friend who had patiently kept me company, sampled a generous selection of perfumes, and slipped outside for a cigarette or two – my pulse had settled, the room had stopped spinning, and my boyfriend finally arrived to collect what was left of my dignity. Before we left, I insisted that he buy another bottle of his shower gel. After unintentionally turning the store into an emergency room, leaving empty-handed felt almost impolite. That same afternoon was also the reason I missed out on the nhỏ girl pop up.

At the time, I had no idea this incident would eventually send me down a rabbit hole that ended with two words: Byronic Hero.

Wether it was La canicule or the all-consuming intimacy of being alone with my own thoughts, somewhere between DSM Parfums and home I found myself Googling the term “Byronic Hero” for the first time.

I’ll explain why in a moment, but first, let me tell you this: Oddly enough, I’m not the biggest perfume person.

The only two perfumes I’ve ever really worn were J’adore by Dior (during my teenage years) and Amazing Green by Comme des Garçons (throughout my 20s). Last year, I stumbled upon “Serviette” online, an independent fine fragrance brand from New York City. One description led to another until I found myself quietly becoming obsessed – not only with the scents themselves, but with the brilliant mind behind them, someone I would later write an email to and, to my delight, receive a thoughtful reply from.

Last year I took a leap of faith and ordered the discovery set, a collection of four different perfumes, without ever having smelled a single fragrance. Inside the small box were four scents, alongside an embroidered napkin that I would later frame. Among them was one called Byronic Hero. It was the first one I reached for and the one I’ve kept returning to ever since. It wasn’t polished in the conventional sense. Rose, oud, patchouli and a trace of diesel exhaust pulled in different directions, yet somehow arrived at the perfect balance. It felt less like a perfume than a personality – one that seemed strangely aligned with the season of life I had found myself in.

The Byronic Hero was traditionally imagined as a solitary man: rebellious, melancholic, and full of contradictions. The more I read, the more it felt like an archetype that had quietly outgrown its original protagonist.

Perhaps the Byronic Hero never disappeared. Maybe the modern equivalent is a woman walking through a city in unbearable heat, still searching for beauty, meaning, and a place to belong. By evening, the diesel exhaust on her skin no longer feels like pollution but another layer of the city she has chosen to carry with her. It becomes impossible to tell where the fragrance ends and the city begins.

She also almost passed out at Dover Street Market Parfums after following the promise of a perfectly air-conditioned store.

With love from my window seat,
Lena