There are days when touch feels like too much, even the good kind, even the accidental kind, even the imagined kind. It’s not always trauma and it’s not always drama. Sometimes it’s just nervous system math.
Florence is a beautiful place to live, but it’s intimate in the way old cities are intimate. People stand close. Friends kiss cheeks. Strangers drift nearer than you would expect.
I can love that and still have days when I want to move through the city without any extra contact, as if my skin has become a little thin and I don’t want to test it.
On those days I use perfume, but not the way perfume is usually talked about, as seduction or aura or something that announces you before you enter a room. I use it like a private boundary that lives close to my body, that makes me feel held without inviting anyone else in.
Perfume can do that if you let it. This is how I use it when I don’t want to be touched, and why it works better than most other rituals I’ve tried, because it’s sensory but not loud, comforting but not sticky, present but not demanding.
What I mean when I say I don’t want to be touched
I don’t mean I never want affection. I don’t mean I’m cold. I mean there are days when my skin feels like it’s already done its social duties, and any additional contact, even light, feels like a drain.
It can happen after a long week of being “on,” answering messages, making small talk, behaving. It can happen after a crowded café where everyone’s elbows overlap. It can happen after a night of bad sleep, when your tolerance is lower and everything feels closer than it should.
When I’m in that state, I don’t want more stimulation. I want less. I want something that makes me feel contained rather than open.
The scent profile I choose on those days
I don’t choose sweet perfume when I feel this way. Sweet scents can feel like softness, but they can also feel sticky, like a suggestion. When I don’t want touch, I want clarity.
I choose scents that feel clean but not soapy, soft but not sugary. Woods, musks, tea notes, iris, subtle incense, skin scents that sit close. I like something that smells like warm fabric rather than warm skin, because fabric is a boundary and skin is an invitation.
In practical terms, the perfume I reach for on those days tends to have one of these moods: paper, clean wool, dry woods, steamed rice, soft smoke, cold citrus, or a quiet powder note that feels like a memory rather than a message.
The way I apply it, exactly
My method is small, and it’s deliberately unromantic.
I spray the inside hem of my sweater or coat
If I’m wearing a coat, I spray the inside of it, low, near the hem or inner lining, where the fabric will hold scent and release it slowly as I move. This means the perfume rises toward me in small shifts when I walk, but it does not sit at face-level for other people.
If I’m wearing a sweater, I spray the inside near my waist, never near the neckline. It becomes my own little scent pocket. I catch it when I sit down, when I move my arms, when I step outside and the air changes.
I sometimes spray the back of my knees, not my wrists
This is the placement that sounds strange until you try it. The back of the knees is warm enough to activate scent, but it stays low and private.
It also feels psychologically correct, because it keeps the scent in my personal space without making it the first thing someone notices if they stand close.
I never do more than two sprays
On these days, I don’t want fragrance to become a cloud. I want it to be a thread. Too much perfume feels like armor, and armor attracts attention in its own way. A subtle application feels like a boundary without a sign on it.
The hack: how I make it last without making it loud
Here is the practical hack I use, and it’s the difference between perfume that disappears in an hour and perfume that stays with you all day without shouting.
Before I apply perfume, I add a tiny amount of unscented moisturizer or a plain balm to the spot where I’m going to spray, especially if it’s skin. Perfume holds better on hydrated skin.
If I’m spraying fabric, I still do the same logic, but in a fabric version. I choose thicker fabric, like wool or cotton, not slippery synthetic, because thicker fabric holds scent longer and releases it slowly. This is why the inside hem trick works so well. The coat does the work.
It’s a small hack, but it makes the entire method more reliable, and reliability is what makes rituals worth keeping.
What I avoid, because it ruins the effect
I avoid spraying on my scarf, because scarves sit close to the face and become a constant scent bombardment. Constant scent can feel like claustrophobia, even if it’s a scent you love. I want a perfume that appears in small waves, not a perfume that traps me inside it.
I avoid reapplying in public, because that turns perfume into performance. If I need more, I wait until I’m home. Most of the time, if I applied it to fabric properly, I don’t need more.
I also avoid “compliment perfumes” on these days, the ones that people stop you to ask about. Those perfumes are for a different mood. On boundary days, I don’t want strangers using my scent as an opening line.
Final Thoughts
I used to think perfume was either seduction or decoration. Now I think it can be something quieter and more useful, a private sensory boundary you carry with you when the world feels too close.
In a city that is beautiful and close and full of contact, that kind of small boundary feels practical, not precious. And it feels like myself, which is usually the point of anything I keep.