‘Do you have any deodorant I can borrow?’ I ask Lizzie, as we both empty the dishwasher in the kitchen. ‘I’ve run out.’
It’s about ten a.m., on a midsummer morning. It’s sunny and warm and – deodorant-less as I am – I’m worried my armpits might start getting smelly soon.
‘I don’t use deodorant anymore,’ replies Lizzie, matter-of-factly, whilst plopping knives and forks in the cutlery drawer.
‘Really?’ I say, surprised. ‘When did you stop using deodorant?’
‘After I had my cancer operation,’ says Lizzie.
‘But that was over two years ago,’ I point out.
Lizzie shrugs. ‘I decided I didn’t want to put any unnecessary chemicals in my body, after getting cancer. So, I stopped using deodorant. Because it has aluminium in it.’
I’m amazed. ‘I had no idea,’ I say.
Because we’re still emptying the dishwasher together, I’m hovering quite close to Lizzie.
‘Are you… sniffing me?’ she asks, incredulously.
‘Sorry, no, yes, I am,’ I admit, sheepishly. ‘I just… can’t believe you haven’t used deodorant for two years. And you don’t totally stink.’
‘Well… do I?’ asks Lizzie, looking over at me.
‘No, not at all!’ I confirm.
‘Maybe my body’s just gotten used to me not using it,’ says Lizzie.
I nod. I like the idea of Lizzie being like some kind of post-chemo earth mother. Totally non-reliant on modern chemicals and drugs… her body maintaining itself like an autonomous matriarchal microorganism. One which smells nice, naturally.
‘Maybe you should stop using deodorant,’ Lizzie suggests.
‘Maybe!’ I say, suddenly feeling quite excited about the idea.
I give my pits a sneaky sniff. They’re a little whiffy. Even with deodorant on them.
‘On the other hand… I think that might be a little high risk,’ I say, backing away from the idea, like a person on public transport backing away from a passenger who has terrible BO.
July 2023
P. D. Clifton 
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