When I was much younger, albeit, with a predilection for appearing to be much older, I decided the scent of Bay Rum cologne suited my particular sense of style. I say "style" but of course it was really adolescent affectation born of daydreaming an urbane existence with undefined tropical dimensions. Something along the lines of Andre Malraux vacationing in the Caribbean, sipping pastis in a rumpled linen jacket beneath palm trees and a stormy sky. It worked for me at the time, as far as I can recall.
Later, even my callow nose became aware that no two brands of Bay Rum cologne smelled alike. Not just slightly dissimilar, they were so different they might as well be the odoriferous equivalent of chalk and cheese. Some I liked and some I definitely did not. Imagine the bottled stench of boiling cabbage and the aroma of sizzling bacon both confusingly being called Eau de Kitchenette. Sometimes such various strains of Bay Rum weren't even spelled the same, as you could buy 'Bay Rhum,' an archaic conceit too much even for me to consider.
These days, having finally reached the age I once impersonated, I no longer buy Bay Rum cologne, finding contentment with the cheaper aftershave varieties whose weak scent dissipates within a trice of application. And whatever affectations I entertain evaporate in similar instantaneous fashion, losing their pretentious appeal mere seconds after being brought to mind. In fact, I can barely remember to buff my armpits with sports stick deodorant. But that's probably too much information.