Author Magazine 5/29/26 Author Magazine 5/29/26

The Architecture of Scent

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CREATIVE DIRECTION AND IMAGE BY OONA CHANEL

Author Magazine 5/25/26 Author Magazine 5/25/26

Hair as History: The Untold Story of What Women Do to Their Hair and Why It Matters

From the elaborate architecture of the French court to the political defiance of natural Black hair movements, what we do to our hair is always a statement about something larger than hair.

“There is no neutral Black hair choice in America. Every choice is made in relation to a set of structural pressures. The decision to wear natural hair to a job interview is not simply an aesthetic decision. It is a political act in a context constructed, over centuries, to make it so.”

When Marie-Antoinette's hair was shaved off on the morning of her execution, the act was understood by everyone present to be a form of erasure. Not of her beauty, which had always been secondary to her political meaning. Of her power. Her hair — which had been, at its most elaborate, a monument to the absolute: towers of powdered and sculpted grey reaching fifty centimeters above her head, decorated with feathers, flowers, model ships, and, in one documented instance, a scene from a recently won military campaign — had been one of the most legible symbols in the political language of the ancien régime. To remove it was to remove a language.

Hair has always been political in ways that the beauty industry acknowledges only occasionally and the historical record documents consistently. The powdered wigs of the European aristocracy. The cropped hair of the flapper as the shorthand for an entire reordering of female public life. The elaborately maintained natural hair of the Harlem Renaissance as a reclamation of aesthetic authority. The Afro as a statement so unambiguous in the late 1960s that Angela Davis's silhouette became a political symbol understood without caption across six continents. The relaxed hair of mid-century Black American professional life as a document of accommodation and the structural violence of beauty standards.

We spoke with six historians, anthropologists, and hair practitioners across four countries about what hair does in culture — how it communicates, what it claims, what it costs.

Dr. Lanita Jacobs, whose anthropological research focuses on the politics of Black hair in America, describes the weight of the conversation with a precision that comes from decades of documentation: "There is no neutral Black hair choice in America. Every choice is made in relation to a set of structural pressures that are, in some contexts, legal and employment-related in their consequences. The decision to wear natural hair to a job interview in 2026 is not simply an aesthetic decision. It is a political act in a context that has been constructed, over centuries, to make it so."

The CROWN Act — which prohibits discrimination based on hair texture and natural hairstyles in the United States — has passed in several states but remains contested at the federal level. The existence of the legislation is the evidence of what it addresses: that what a Black woman does with her hair has been, and in many contexts remains, a criterion on which her access to economic opportunity is evaluated.

In Japan, the history of hair is different but equally dense with meaning. The elaborate shimada hairstyles of the Edo period — their specific variations indicating marital status, social class, and the context of the wearing — were a complete social grammar worn on the head. The meiji-era shift to Western hairstyles was not cosmetic. It was a statement of modernization that had the specific political meaning of the period: a deliberate departure from the visual language of a feudal system being actively dismantled.

The contemporary story runs through the natural hair movement, the protective styles of the 2010s, the pandemic's relationship to hair practice — the long months at home that became, for many people, the period in which they stopped performing the version of themselves that professional life required and discovered something else — and into the current moment, in which the conversation about hair is being conducted, particularly by young people, with a sophistication about its political dimensions that previous generations had to develop in less legible terms.

The hairdresser Christiaan, who styled for Vogue throughout the 1970s and 1980s and remains one of the most respected practitioners in the field, speaks about hair with the considered affection of someone who has been in close physical relationship with the material of human self-expression for fifty years: "Hair is the most personal thing there is. It grows from your body. It changes with your health, your age, your stress. It carries, literally, the chemical trace of your life. When I cut someone's hair, I am not changing their style. I am participating in their ongoing conversation with who they are."

This is what the beauty industry finds difficult to hold and what the cultural record documents consistently: that hair is never just appearance. It is identity, memory, politics, loss, claim, and the ongoing negotiation between the self you were born with and the self the world wants you to perform. Every haircut is a position. Every color change is a decision. Every woman who walks into a salon, or who puts down the flat iron, or who lets the grey grow, is making a statement in a language as old as power.

BY OONA CHANEL

Author Magazine 5/7/26 Author Magazine 5/7/26

The Perfumer's Year: A Month-by-Month Map of the Living Olfactory World

Before the bottle. Before the formula. Before the ingredient list. Fragrance begins with what the world smells like at a specific moment in time — and learning to read it.

“Smell is the most honest sense. You cannot fake a response to it. It reaches you before you have decided how to feel. This is why it is so powerful — and why it is so rarely taken seriously by people who make things.”

In April, in the south of France, the mimosa is finished. This matters. The mimosa window — the two weeks in February when the groves of Mandelieu-la-Napoule produce a honey-dense golden warmth that exists nowhere else at no other time — has closed for another year, and Bertrand Duchaufour, who has been one of the most important noses in perfumery for thirty years, is already thinking about what comes next.

What comes next, in May, is the rose.

The rose harvest at Grasse is not a metaphor. It is one of the most labor-intensive agricultural events in the luxury world: pickers beginning before dawn, before the heat opens the petals too fully and the most volatile compounds begin to escape, working with a speed that seems impossible until you understand that they have been doing this since childhood. A kilogram of rose absolute requires approximately five tonnes of petals. The rose harvest lasts perhaps six weeks. This is all the rose absolute there will be for the year.

Duchaufour takes me through the year the way a vintner takes you through the seasons of a vineyard: not as a technical calendar but as a sensory narrative, a sequence of qualities that the natural world presents and that the perfumer's task is to receive.

March: the first grass. April: mimosa ending, violet emerging, the specific cold-green of the air after rain on stone. May: rose, jasmine beginning. June: jasmine peak, the orange blossom of Calabria if you can still find a reliable source, the beginning of the lavender. July: lavender in its full purple heat, the dry woody smell of garrigue that has no equivalent in any catalog. August: the sea and the resins — labdanum from Cistus plants, the camphor of the Atlas cedar, the beginning of the incense season. September: the first woods starting to change, the beginnings of mushroom and moss in northern latitudes. October: the oakmoss harvest, patchouli arriving from Indonesia. November and December: the cold materials — vetiver, oud, the deep amber compounds that are too heavy for summer and that bloom in cold air as nothing else does.

"A perfumer who does not know the year," Duchaufour says, "knows perfume the way a painter who has never been to a forest knows green. Which is to say: technically. But not fully."

We spent a week following him through the processes of evaluation and selection that precede any formula: the visits to the raw material suppliers, the hours in the evaluation room with strips of paper and the discipline of smell without language, the process of building what he calls "the accord" — the conversation between materials that is the emotional core of any fragrance before it becomes a product.

The raw material room is the most interesting room I have visited in a year of interesting rooms. It contains approximately three thousand samples, from the most common (bergamot, vetiver) to the extraordinary (a small vial of orris absolute valued at something in the order of €100,000 per kilo) to the materials that no longer exist in commercial production and survive only here, in small quantities, because Duchaufour has spent decades acquiring them. The room smells — to put it very simply — of time.

He has been formulating for three decades, and his practice has become something the perfume industry has not entirely caught up with: he works primarily to commission now, for clients who want something specific rather than something commercial. The commissions are not always for personal fragrances, though some are. They are sometimes for places — the particular smell of a hotel lobby that should remind you of nothing specific but of a feeling you cannot name — and sometimes for events, for collections, for the olfactory dimension of spaces designed by architects who understand that smell is the only sense that bypasses the rational brain entirely and acts directly on memory and emotion.

"Smell is the most honest sense," he says. "You cannot fake a response to smell. It reaches you before you have decided how to feel about it. This is why it is so powerful, and why it is so rarely taken seriously by people who make things. They trust the eye. The eye can be managed. The nose cannot."

The year, he says, teaches you that the most interesting materials are the ones that exist for a limited time in a specific place and that cannot be reproduced by synthesis. The natural world has a precision that chemistry cannot replicate — not because chemistry is inadequate, but because what a natural material offers is not just a compound but a context: the temperature at which it was harvested, the quality of the season, the specific maturity of the plant. These things are not isolatable variables. They are the material itself.

He says: "People ask me what the best perfume is. The best perfume is the one you smell the moment before you understand you are smelling it. When it is already in you before you can think about it. That is what the natural world does, every morning, for free. We are trying to make a bottle of that."

By Oona chanel