Fragrance du jour, recent sniffs, random notes.
A comforting scent that drifts to the masculine, with enjoyable self-care vibes.
Opens with oaky root-beer and a hit of patchouli, then settles into vanilla sweetened incense smoke.
A bit of myrrh on the bottom gives a nice medicinal note in an indulgent healing way.
Lasts for a good hour a foot of the hands, and two more close to the skin.
I snapped this pic on my dad’s harpsichord. This song features one and has some of the same easy feel-good vibe as the scent-
I remember Miss Dior being lovely a long time ago– but this 2017 version not so much. Just opening the magazine peelie makes me feel hungover.
There’s some throat-clenching citrus, a bang on the head of rose, and some nauseating patchouli.
Not one I’m going to chase down in the shops.
Here’s another unnecessary 2017 cover–Rihanna’s song is awesome as is–though this one does it justice, stripped down and acoustic.
Sugar and roses at first spray, then more roses, with stray woody spice underneath, then more roses (and sneezing!) with a bit of caramel benzoin and more roses.
The random notes trickling in and out seem like passing cars blaring random pop songs while one is listening to Ella Fitzgerald.
Close to the skin within ten minutes and gone in twenty.*
*ETA: lasts months on cotton–so perhaps a better one for hair and scarves rather than skin?
Light and lovely and ridiculously fresh, but with an odd plastic-left-in-the-sun note. Peaches in cellophane and patchouli and warm spice, with a hit of wax rose petals and white flowers, ending on a very comforting vetiver.
Projects like a summer garden with vinyl flags and lasts twice as long on clothes than skin.
Pity about the cheap cassette tape bottle, though. That’s just a travesty.
This was the biggest pop song in Italy in 1999.
Sweet, but somehow tumultuous.
An afternoon jaunt for high tea in a posh vintage car that ends with a tire puncture on the side of the road.
Starts with Earl Grey and cardamom and some raspberry cake, but oddly (oud-ly?) finishes with ice cream melting on asphalt.
I like it, but not enough to buy it.
Sweet on the skin, yet puts the pine back in pineapple. The patchouli is softened with a hit of sticky vanilla, and later settles down to sophisticated rosemary and black currants.
If I had a proper office job, I would wear it daily with tailored pantsuits.
A funeral in the rain.
Wet ashes and limes, rose thorns, black pepper, black umbrellas and dirt.
Over in two hours.
Rather elegant, actually.
The name is from a Victor Hugo poem: Hermann, at my side, seemed like a shadow.
A wet song:
TokyoMilk #12
If you could garnish a drink with a twist of rose peel, it would smell like this.
Nice on the skin, but fades too quickly; I prefer a stronger cocktail.
Byredo’s Bibliothèque is that time you snuck a jelly filled donut into the library: a lovely hit of plummy jam on top of papery leather, with musky violet almond dust.
Only a short story, but sweet and satisfying.
This Reina del Cid song is also sweet and satisfying.
Opens with incense and intrigue, and a sweet, spicy neroli rose that blooms a yard off the wrist.
Soon melts down to rich amber resin and sandalwood and lingers on the skin for an hour.
Lovely and mysterious, but I wish the honey notes lasted longer–and that price is not a steal.
This song effectively ended the eighties, and confused a hella lot of us about fashion, gender norms, and which ends of our cutoff jeans we were supposed to wear where.
Damn, I miss Prince.
kira a. gold 