“God, I could use a cigarette,” Emma tells me as I restring her lipstick-red Squier Stratocaster, a shade she’s dyed her hair to match.  She offers the information of her addiction as plainly as she might describe the weather, and I can’t tell whether she’s confessed her need to impress me or whether she genuinely craves a smoke.
            “How long have you been a smoker?” I ask her.  She plays with her nose ring.
            “Since March,” she replies.  “And I haven’t had one since I’ve been here.”  “Here” refers to Buck’s Rock, the creative arts camp where I am her counselor.  She is slender, well-dressed, five-foot-eight, and will enter her freshman year of high school once the summer ends.  This means she began smoking at the age of thirteen.
            I wonder if, as her counselor, I have some obligation to advise her against tobacco; to tell her of its adverse risks including lung cancer, asthma, coronary disease, stroke, infertility, tell-tale stench as far as the nose can sniff, et-cetera and what-have-you.  I know these dangers because I spent the first dozen cognizant years of my life nagging my father about his own smoking habit.  Regardless of my input, I am sure Emma is well informed of the evils of tobacco - advertising campaigns like thetruth.com and the recently successful film Thank You for Smoking clearly display all aforementioned side effects of smoke inhalation to the young teenaged generation, of which Emma is a card-carrying member.
            I opt out of the role-model approach, partially because I don’t have any groundbreaking medical details to present her, but largely because I understand the appeal.  Despite its toxicity, the cigarette and the images connected to it retain a factor of cool, even among today’s hyper-educated, health-conscious youth.  One could blame the persistence of the habit on nicotine’s addictive quality, and its ability to calm nerves and to suppress appetite.  But Emma didn’t start smoking to calm down, or to lose weight (although the threat of gaining weight may keep her from curbing the habit) - at least, I assume those weren’t her reasons.  She, along with many of the campers at Buck’s Rock, wanted to fit into the “cool artist” stereotype.  This explains her facial piercing, her trendier-than-thou haircut, her vintage clothing and her desire to light up.  The stereotype includes the use of the cigarette.
            So why are cigarettes considered fashionable, despite public awareness of their health risks?  It’s possible that films propagate the belief, although rarely is a cinematic character’s smoking habit viewed favorably.  Today’s more sophisticated blockbusters feature a lean, emotionally dark male protagonist - intensely focused, Hemingwayesque in his personal relationships, relentless in his goals, chain-smoking as the overwhelming details of the plot unfold.  His habit is his weakness; weakness in a hero makes him human and humanity in a hero is attractive as hell.  Consider actors who fit the mold.  Bruce Willis in Die Hard.  Jude Law in Alfie.  Colin Farell in Phone Booth.  These guys are wanted by every woman in the audience, and every man wants to take the actor’s place on screen with cigarette in hand. The female smoker is portrayed just as desirably on film.  In Closer, Natalie Portman portrays a Marlboro-puffing exotic dancer; her profession and her habit makes the latter intertwine with her sexuality.  Maggie Gyllenhaal plays an educated Wellesley student and a habitual smoker in the film Mona Lisa Smile; the actress’ recent cover on Marie Claire featured the caption “Meet Maggie Gyllenhaal (And we thought her brother was hot...)”.  The cigarette shrouds its user in smoke and mystery, and mystery is sex appeal, regardless of its danger.  This cultural idea is as well represented in film today as it was in the films of Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn.  James Dean rode a motorcycle and smoked cigarettes constantly - these dangerous actions embodied his coolness.
            Then again, there’s no need to turn to film to see the profound impact the cigarette has made on our culture; one need only turn to adjectives.  The skin-tight bootleg denim pants now in fashion are called ‘cigarette jeans’.  A popular French song, “L’Amour C’est Comme Une Cigarette,” describes romance as fleeting and glamorous, like tobacco smoke.  The gravelly, sullen and emotional quality present in the voices of singers like Tom Waits, Kim Gordon and Bob Dylan is often referred to as a ‘whiskey-and-cigarettes’ tone.  It’s a kind of voice derived from damage, and yet some of the most memorable and fascinating singers in recent memory were avid smokers.  Is damage part of that idealistic glamour?  Is injury a part of beauty? 
            For Emma, the two are synonymous.  She is young and she wants to be self-destructive; she hurts her body to prove her mortality, to prove her maturity; she is as aware of her humanity as she can be at age thirteen.  I am young too, and I know there is nothing glamorous about lung cancer.  People close to me have been killed by it and I’ve never questioned whether those individuals looked beautiful or rebellious or cool when they lit up.  My father is irritable each time he tries to quit smoking.  He gains weight and snaps at everyone.  He hides cigarettes in briefcases out of desperation.  His subservience to this custom is entirely unattractive.  Despite the grotesque nature of addiction and its horrific medical effects, the cool factor prevails in my mind as well as in the minds of those who continue to light up. 
            The first thing I did on my eighteenth birthday was buy a pack of cigarettes.  I’d never smoked before, but my close friend Dana is a social smoker and she guided me through the varieties she’d sampled.  She described different brands to me as smokey, earthy, full, light, and smooth - more adjectives than I thought could apply to some leaves wrapped in paper.  We settled on a brand that advertised itself as additive free, which, Dana joked, appealed to my organic vegan diet.  I smoked two from the pack: the first in a swimming pool (it was the night of my birthday and I appreciated the ironic contrast between the fire and water) and the second in a casino (some friends and I went to Mohegan Sun before we left for college, and decided that because we were allowed to smoke indoors, we had to take advantage of the unique opportunity).  With a cigarette between my fingers, I was all at once a private eye and John Lennon; I was a beautiful French girl at a cafe who’d left red lipstick stains on the cigarette burning in an ashtray beside me.  I understood the inexplicable cool factor that had been presented to me via the culture that surrounds me and so I held onto the unfinished pack (despite the health risks that scared me away from trying them again).  Post-experience, a whiff of tobacco from a stranger seemed deep and alluring.  I developed an affinity for involuntary smoke.
            When I’ve finished tuning Emma’s guitar, I see that she is waiting for me to respond to her admission.  Her eyes are enormous and blue.  She has heard it all before and dares me to tell her something new.  There are hotlines people call to quit smoking; I am not employed by one.  I have not been trained in the right things to say and I know no correct protocol to follow when discussing cigarette smoking.  People damage themselves with sleep deprivation and alcohol; they kill themselves with too many fatty foods and laziness and depression and in doing so they live.  Vices are omnipresent and humanity is reality, which is attractive and dangerous and glamorous all at once.  I say nothing and finally she prods.
            “Have you ever smoked before?”
            “No.  Never.  It gives you wrinkles and costs too much money and guys really hate the smell.”  I hand her the guitar.  “I guess that’s it for our lesson today.”
             She goes back to her cabin with her guitar in hand, and I walk back to my residence.  I fish the pack of cigarettes out of the bottom of my handbag and walk over to Dana’s room, where I leave them in her custody.  I don’t purchase more.