Bright tropical sweet fruity candy out of the vial–the whole roll of Island Fruits LifeSavers at once.
The guava-papaya-coconut morphs slowly, a few feet off the skin, with a sweet woodsy note of apple stems and apricot pits, then a brief turn of sharp green banana, before settling into warm peaches on the pulse points for a couple hours.
This would make a great first date perfume–fun and friendly, but offering only a cheek to kiss at the end of the evening.
“Les Fleurs du Dechet” sounds so much prettier, but…
I Am Trash is found object art, a lovely re-purposing of unwanted scraps into elegance.
The opening is shocking–orange rind and a vodka note of fermenting potato parings, but then apple peel quickly takes over and blooms into bruised rose petals, and it’s suddenly gorgeous.
The flowers stay for an hour or two at arm’s length, then fade into a sweet woodsy musk that lingers comfortingly on second hand sleeves all afternoon.
I love the cleverness of it.
Happy Merry to me.
Vagabond Prince’s Enchanted Forest is exactly that: dark balsam fir woods and tangles of black currant shrubs and wine and roses.
The first spray turns one into a wayward elf, dressed in flowers and drunk on berries. The acid bite of the fruit slowly softens with benzoin, sweet on the skin, and lofty on clothes for hours.
I feel like I’m the heroine in an epic fantasy novel saga wearing this stuff.
Rather nice fruit-chuli, in a motorcycle pants and pineapple LifeSaver way.
The lavender lingers, but doesn’t turn to soap.
I have to wonder at that leather note, though. There’s a shoe salesman vibe that makes me conscious of my fallen arches and scuffed toes.
(Not that I wouldn’t let Kit Harington untie my laces, or anything… but why does he look so constipated in the ad?)
Opens loud and long with green violets and absinthe, then hovers jealously over the skin with almonds and cherry musk for hours.
The wormwood coats the almonds, making them weird and witchy, with long bitchy fingernails.
Alluring, but odd.
Tipsy strawberries and seawater, roses and a tangled forest.
Projects like spilled wine and soaks clothes for weeks.
Several years ago I wrote a short story set on Öland, an island off the coast of Sweden. My two young lovers celebrate midsummer eating strawberries and getting drunk, and if the pages could be scented, they’d smell like Sådanne.
Salty sand and boozy sweet fruit, so sun-ripe it’s alcoholic, eaten in the shadows of the sea-wind twisted trees on the shore.
I adore it.
So Nivol de Limona means “lemon cloud.” I don’t get fluffy, but it does change shape as it quickly passes by.
Starts with a squirt of Dawn dish detergent, takes an enjoyable but brief snack of milk and lemon Girl Scout sandwich cookies, then disappears with a wave of sugar scented hand lotion.