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"Are you ready to smell Mariah?"

This question comes from Ellen, the woman behind the fragrance counter at Dillard's. I'm here with my nose and notepad, and she is guiding me through the scented mists of pop star fragrances.

Mariah can wait. I'm still contemplating Christina Aguilera. Scent, of course, is a powerful memory trigger. Christina's Inspire whisked me back to 1985, when I worked as a delivery guy for a company called Rose Express. This is what my car smelled like after a day delivering roses.

Ellen confides that Inspire is "probably bound for Walgreen's." When celebrity scents lose their juice--average shelf life is 2-3 years--they're demoted from the department stores.

Linking celebrities to fragrances is nothing new. In the 1930s, Schiaparelli designed a perfume bottle to look like Mae West. In the 1950s, Givenchy created a scent for Audrey Hepburn. But it wasn't until the ‘80s that pop stars started spritzing. Cher and Michael Jackson were early "fragranciers" (their discontinued scents are now on eBay).

So how do stars market their smells? First they come up with a "concept"--usually something vague like "passionate possibilities" or "tropic breezes"--then hire a perfume company to realize it. By lending their names, celebrities rake in 10 per cent of sales. In turn, their star power has boosted sagging sales in the perfume industry.

To better understand this phenomenon, I sampled twelve different scents (average price: $50). A few impressions:

Usher--Fragrances are evaluated in three stages, or "notes"--top, middle and dry-down. Usher's top note reminds me of Off, the mosquito repellent. It mellows into a citrus-y soap smell, like Dial.

McGraw--Redolent of bay rum and cigarettes. Since the singer is a family man/bad boy, this makes sense. I'm told that "most of the guys who buy this look like Tim McGraw."

Carlos Santana--As much as I expected cannabis, I got baked apples and cinnamon.

Sean John "Unforgivable"--Grapefruits, lemons and a hundred pushy salesmen who've tried to sell me everything from stereo equipment to used cars.

Mariah Carey "Luscious Pink"--The pretty mom who's tipsy at the wedding reception, wondering if a nice young man might dance with an "older woman." With free music download.

Gwen Stefani "Harajuku Lovers"--I sampled two of the five varieties. "Lil' Angel" was like a raspberry lollipop. "Music" hit a vanilla note that took me back to senior prom, slow dancing to Styx's "Babe" with my nose buried in Becky Beezer's neck.

As I approached olfactory overload, I asked Ellen what accounts for these scents' popularity. "I guess it makes people feel closer to the stars," she said.

As a fan, I've worn band T-shirts. I've hung up posters in my bedroom. Once, I even brought the Band On The Run sleeve to a hair stylist, requesting the Macca feathered mullet. Yet somehow, the idea of dousing yourself in star cologne seems different--more intimate. But I suppose that's the idea. Most of the endorsers are fantasy objects, so there's the unspoken promise that their musk will sweep you into their sexual sphere.

Leaving Dillard's, I nearly gagged on my new multi-scented aroma. Granted, no one should ever wear twelve cross-pollinated pop stars. But still I wondered, does this high-priced toilet water really make people feel better about themselves? Does it improve their social lives?

Any testimonials? Over to you.

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