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  Tiresias, The Androgyne Perfume Oil

  Upon the next stage, a spotlight is focused on a mammoth bronze sculpture of two snakes entwined. Their bodies are wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace, and their tongues touch suggestively. The deep, somber boom of a standing bass leads into a twelve-string guitar’s plaintive moan, and as the music swells, a stunning, statuesque woman steps out from behind the statue, her fierce and regal face in profile. The spotlight dims to a deep amber-red, and shines a dark, sanguine light onto her, tinting her long, wild hair the color of blood. She sings:

  Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless.
  Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless.
  Little white flowers will never awaken you,
  Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
  Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
  Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
  Gloomy Sunday.

  She turns, and abruptly faces left. Her features are coarser, more masculine, and you notice the rough, dusky shadow of an evening beard on the singer’s face. On this side, the hair is cropped short, and as s/he sighs and begins the next verse, you hear the voice deepen to a weathered, sorrowful baritone.

  Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all.
  My heart and I have decided to end it all.
  Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are sad, I know.
  Death is no dream, for in death I’m caressing you.
  With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you.
  Gloomy Sunday.

  The singer turns to face the audience, and your senses reel. On the left side, the features are sharp, but feminine. You can see the curve of her breast, the soft fullness of her hips, the arch of her fine brow. On the right, it is the body of an Adonis, muscular and commanding. You see that a thick seam runs down the center of the body, stitched roughly.

  Though the vision is disconcerting, the warmth and passion in the singer’s voice swells inside your heart, and you are spellbound. Enraptured, you realize that though the gender is opposed on either side, one soul binds the whole.

  Dark, moody, and bittersweet: black currant, patchouli, tobacco, cinnamon leaf, caramel, muguet, and red sandalwood.

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• 

  Knave of Hearts Perfume Oil

  ‘Herald, read the accusation!’ said the King.

  On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:–

  ‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
  All on a summer day:
  The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
  And took them quite away!’

  Crushed roses and blackcurrant tarts.

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  Masks Confronting Death Perfume Oil

  James Ensor
  Jolly, jeering splats of red and black currants, neroli, and spiced apricot surrounding a grinning clang of spectral sandalwood musk.

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• 

  Eat Me Hair Gloss

  Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words ‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in currants.
  
  ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!’
  
  She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, ‘Which way? Which way?’, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.
  
  Three white cakes, vanilla, and red and black currants.
  
  BPAL’s Eat Me is not for eating. Please use common sense, and remember: hair glosses are for external use only.

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