Would You Wear It?

Still too busy for blogging, alas. Even though I have several reviews partially written, and an idea simmering for a post comparing a handful of lavenders, too many other obligations are tugging at my pant legs just now. M. and I will be heading to Boston tomorrow for a couple of well-needed days of eating, shopping, and museum visiting in a city that actually has ample opportunity for all of the above (unlike our beloved L-town). Unfortunately, even a couple of days of vacation invariably means finalizing more work than is humanly possible before leaving. Its a vicious, vicious cycle ... If any of you know of someone who is interested in financially supporting a poor overworked boi who just wants to read all day, send them my way. I can be very endearing when I want to be ...

In the meantime, here's a little perfume humor courtesy of The Onion.

The question is: If Authorité were real, would you wear it?

Updates

Because I've been incredibly busy for the last week, I haven't had the time to post any new reviews. I will be back soon, though. I promise.

In the meantime, check out my updates to the entries on Hanae Mori HM for Men and Hermes Eau d'Orange Verte. I added my thoughts on HM's eau de parfum concentration, as well as Concentré d'Orange Verte, the eau de toilette reimagining of Hermes' classic eau de cologne.

See you soon!

A Clumsily-Written Love Letter to Encens Flamboyant

It’s been nearly two weeks since Julie turned me on to the magnificence that is Annick Goutal’s Encens Flamboyant. We had a little perfume party at her house a few Saturdays ago, after meeting up at the Zen Center we both attend. It was a good day, and I enjoyed it immensely. Julie lives out in the middle of nowhere, and you have to drive on all sorts of windy back roads through hills and farmland to get there. It’s a gorgeous drive that was all the more pleasurable because the weather was perfect – sunny and crisp, so that the cool March air blowing into my open car window just barely cut through my thin Army surplus jacket, teasing my skin awake. Like I said … perfect.

Once we got to Julie’s house, I got to smell dozens of really cool perfumes, many of which I’d love to spend more time sampling. I sniffed Safran Troublant and Arabie and Ambre Sultan and Jicky and Frapin 1270 and Passage d’Enfer and A.G.’s Neroli and Dzongka! and Dzing! and Timbuktu and so many other interesting fragrances. I made paper samples of them, and will probably try them all more extensively down the line. It was just really fun and exciting to expose my nose to so many new scent experiences. By far, though, the star of the day was Encens Flamboyant. It was the first thing Julie had me smell, and it’s what I was wearing when I left for the day. She was even kind enough to send me home with a largish spray sample (as well as a small bottle of Eau d’Orange Verte moisturizing lotion, which I’ve been enjoying along with my own bottle of the cologne – thanks!).

Encens Flamboyant was more than love at first sniff. It was absolute ecstatic bliss at first sniff. I can understand why Julie has been so anxious to read my review. She got to see the effect the stuff had on me … the way I couldn’t keep from pressing my nose to my wrist every few seconds, because it was just too damn good to resist. What I have been able to resist is writing about it. I find it much easier to write about things I hate or only marginally like than about things I love. Loving something creates pressure, makes me feel that whatever I write won’t be able to do justice to the beloved thing itself. How can mere words ever convey that quality that lifts a sense experience beyond “Yes, that is nice,” and into the territory of “Holy Christ, that’s unbelievable!”

The top of Encens Flamboyant is as close to perfect as I think any fragrance could be, with the rich, smoky frankincense, the freshness of the balsam fir, and the peppery spices that make the back of my throat tingle. I thought Terre d’Hermes smelled deep and meditative, but this has it beat, hands down. Encens Flamboyant smells like the most meticulously crafted incense imaginable being burnt under a clear starlit sky at the top the most secluded, pristine, coniferous mountaintop in the world. I wanted everything I own - no, everything I touch - to smell like Encens Flamboyant.

I don’t know why they called it “flamboyant,” which makes me think of the fabulousness of drag queens or the trashiness of Vegas. If I had named this, I would have called it Samadhi (“meditative absorption”), even though, just like Shiseido’s Zen and Guerlain’s Samsara, the name would have been mocked by Rod over at The Worst Horse (a great, funny blog that documents the intersection of Buddhism and popular culture, including the all-too-common crass misuse of Buddhist terminology and imagery in marketing). I don’t care. If satori had a smell, that smell would be Encens Flmaboyant.

I’m used to wearing colognes and eaux de toilette, so it was a surprise to me how long this eau de parfum lasts. I put some on yesterday afternoon, and I could still smell it when I woke up this morning. I think a trace of it may have even lingered after my shower. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t know. I put more on this morning, and am still loving it.

If I have any criticism of Encens Flamboyant at all, it’s that the base is a touch too smooth and sweet for me. I would prefer for some of that delicious pine to stay put through the drydown. If I’d made this, I would have put some cedar at the bottom, so it maintained a little bit of bite throughout. That said, even the somewhat powdery base of this composition smells wonderful. And the pine and peppery notes I like so much do hang around for quite a while. The heart of this fragrance probably lasts longer than the entire lifespan of many others I’ve tried.

Image note: A Shinto shrine clouded with incense smoke.

More Adventures at the Head Shop

It seems the Nag Champa and hemp jewelry vibe of Czech & Speake's No. 88 isn't limited to just their signature fragrance. After trying a few of the other samples from the package they sent me the other day, I've found the cloying cheap incense accord to be key in the composition of both Neroli and Frankincense & Myrrh, as well. While No. 88 is at least tolerable, though, these other two are disgusting - absolute scrubbers. The recipe for both Neroli and Frankincense & Myrrh - which I can barely tell apart - seems to be, "crack open a bottle of No. 88, squirt a stale bottle of personal lubricant into it until the mixture smells like toilet bowl cleaner, bottle it, add sexy marketing copy and serve!" Too bad. I love real incense smells (I'll get to Encens Flamboyant soon, Julie, I promise), and I think I like neroli, too. Sadly, neither of these colognes smell anything like their names, or Czech & Speake's ad copy, suggest.

Image note: More head shoppy fun.

No. 88 is Like ... Dude, Don't Bogart the Bugles!

Once upon a time, the world seemed like a simpler place. I believed world peace was achievable, if only all our leaders would just get together and toke up. "Multiculturalism" meant buying cheap Moroccan handicrafts from some stoned guy who kept staring at my friends' tits (no one ever stared at my tits). I lusted after cute rich girls who wore Birkenstocks and flowy dresses, and who pretended it didn't matter that they went to such expensive colleges. They were straight, but still made me hemp jewelry and sometimes kissed me if they'd had a couple of drinks (because they were open-minded like that).

Czech & Speake's No. 88 smells like something I would have worn back then, if I'd heard of it, and if it didn't cost $130 a bottle. It's an overly-sweet, one-dimensional scent that reminds me of a hemp bracelet that's been sitting next to the incense display at some cheesy head shop with dancing bears painted on the windows. The smell is nice enough, for what it is ... unfortunately, "what it is" is a cologne for painfully self-aware, horny 19-year-olds who think Nag Champa incense represents the apex of worldly and exotic fragrances.

Image note: As long as cute college girls continue to make ugly hemp jewelry, there will still be good in the world.

Czech & Speake's Cuba is the Smell of Heat, Sex, Mojitos, Mambo, and Cigars

I feel like taking a break from the Hermes for a bit, and I did give a quick teaser of Czech & Speake’s Cuba yesterday, so I should probably end the suspense and commence with a full review.

Before I even tried Cuba, BitterGrace described it to me as “quite a mélange – sweet, spicy, green, animalic, etc. Kinda smells like a Havana nightclub, circa 1950.” I include her words here because, really, I couldn’t have said it better, myself. Cuba has all of the olfactory elements I associate with a hot night in tropics. The notes of tobacco, lime, rum, and mint come together in a way that evokes mojitos and Cuban cigars. The vetiver and other vegetative and woody components bring to mind palm trees emitting their fragrance on a warm tropical breeze, while the animalic thread is suggestive of sweat and aggressive sexuality. And something in there smells like green bananas to me, though I’m not sure that was intentional.

As I said yesterday, Cuba is an intensely interesting cologne. Nothing about it is even remotely dull. Czech & Speake markets it as a unisex fragrance, but it smells like pure testosterone to me. I suspect it takes a big personality to wear Cuba well, and I don’t think I could pull it off in a thousand years. It’s definitely a work of art, though, for painting such a perfect picture of a very specific time and place.

Image note: I wanted to use something sexy here – a vintage photo of people dancing a mambo or something – but nothing really fit the bill, so this is just a cool iconic photo that seemed to capture the appropriate era. Many thanks to Belgian photographer Ulrik De Wachter, who kindly shared this photo over at Stock Exchange.

I Love Free Stuff!

I just got home from work to find a package in the mail from the folks at Czech & Speake, a London-based bathroom fittings company that also makes perfumes.

I had completely forgotten that I signed up for the company's mailing list after receiving a sample of their unisex fragrance Cuba from BitterGrace a few weeks ago. I haven't blogged about Cuba yet, but I will. It's an incredibly interesting fragrance, though probably not one I could really pull off. I let Julie smell it last week, though, and she seemed to really like it a lot. (Julie, you can have my new sample, now that I have two). More on the Cuba later ...

When I signed up for samples on the Czech & Speake Web site, I thought they might send off one or two samples somewhere down the line. What I got was a huge package filled with a carded sample of each of the nine fragrances in their aromatics line, along with a marketing booklet and a handwritten note. All of it came wrapped in marbelized tissue paper held together by a C&S stamped foil seal. Talk about a warm welcome!

Several of the fragrances look very interesting to me, especially Oxford & Cambridge, Neroli, Citrus Paradisi, and Frankincense & Myrrh. My partner, M., seems quite impressed with Dark Rose. She just put some on, and it does smell lovely. Very sensual. (Maybe I'll have to depart from my format and review a few girly smells down the line ...)

Anyway, if anyone wants a cadre of free samples, visit the Czech & Speake Web site and click on the samples tab. And if anyone from Czech & Speake sees this, thanks! I'll be reviewing these goodies in weeks to come. (If any of you other perfumeries are reading this, feel free to email me for my address).

Un Jardin Sur Le Nil Smells Like a Garden of Malevolent Sentient Flower Beasts!

After my quick Vetiver intermission of the other day, I’m ready to get back to Hermes, and it occurs to me that I didn’t mention before why I was so interested in smelling things from that particular house.

Back when I started this little experiment in scent, my friend Julie told me that her partner Dick was in love with Hermes Un Jardin Sur Le Nil. In fact, Julie wrote a wonderful blog entry last spring all about Dick’s experience with the perfume. I’ve only met Dick once, but he seemed to be a man after my own heart; he struck me as smart, compassionate, casual, earthy, and friendly. Plus he’s adorable, with a warm smile and kind eyes … I suppose I should stop there, before Julie gets the idea that I’m planning to switch teams and pounce on her man. The only reason I relate all of this is that, after reading about Dick’s ecstatic encounter with the fragrance, I thought, “If that’s how this great guy, who has never worn a drop of cologne in his life, reacts to Un Jardin Sur Le Nil, then I need to smell this stuff!”

While I was looking for a sample, I became intrigued with the descriptions of a few other Hermes scents, so I decided to just sample them all – or, all of the unisex and masculine scents, anyway. Good move. Two other Hermes scents – Terre d’Hermes and Eau d’Orange Verte – wound up becoming my two favorites (so far). But today, I’m blogging about Un Jardin Sur Le Nil.

When I first opened the sample vial, the Nil smelled very promising. It smelled like orange peels, and was very bright and cheerful. Sort of a lighter version of Eau d’Orange Verte. Once I put it on, though, the orange peels faded pretty quickly, to be replaced by flowers. It reminded me of stargazer lilies and other very strongly scented flowers. Lotus is listed among the notes for this fragrance, so I’m guessing that’s what the most insistent floral smell in there was. Immediately, I was glad I'd gone light on the application. Even after a few short minutes, that heavy floral smell seemed overbearing.

Un Jardin Sur Le Nil is most definitely a “garden,” a very large, deep one on a warm, wet June day. I’ve never been to northern Africa, so I can’t comment on the “Nil” part of the name. I did read that Ellena was trying to mimic the smell of green mangoes. I can’t comment on that resemblance either, but there was a definite impression of ripening fruit - of green bananas, specifically. Rather than carrying me along the Nile, this fragrance left me with an impression of the Amazon Rainforest, with massive, bright, bold flowers growing amid banana trees, where monkeys and parrots and toucans make their homes.

At the beginning, I liked smelling this fragrance well enough, but didn’t like smelling like it. Though I’ve been trying to avoid making judgments like “masculine” or “feminine,” I found it to be a very womanly smell, at least on me. I decided I would probably enjoy smelling it on an attractive woman on a warm summer evening. As the day wore on, though, the scent seemed to get stronger and stronger until, by lunchtime, I felt like I was being choked to death by malevolent sentient flower beasts. What started out in the morning as an attractive - if a touch too feminine for my tastes - perfume had become a total scrubber by noon.

When I shared my impression of Un Jardin Sur Le Nil with Julie, she was surprised. “On Dick, it’s a bracing citrus scent. Not feminine at all.” Lucky Dick … he got the bright tangy citrus, and I got stuck with the gaggy florals. Oh well. Ellena had me with Terre d’Hermes. I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

Image note: The Amazon Rainforest.

Guerlain Vetiver- An Attractive, Charming Disappointment

I know I promised a steady stream of Hermes reviews for the next few weeks, but I feel compelled to blog about one of the many (many many!) samples I recently received in the mail from BitterGrace. I’ve already tried a handful of the twenty or so she’s sent me over the last couple of weeks, and each will get its turn at being reviewed. But today I want to focus on Guerlain’s Vetiver, a scent that so narrowly missed finding a place in my heart, it makes me feel kind of wistful.

The opening notes of Vetiver are incredibly pleasant – green and spring-like, with just the slightest bite to give it some interest. It has an astringent, almost mentholated, quality that made my nose tingle and light up. As soon as that passes, Vetiver settles into a melodiously smooth phase that’s reminiscent of rosewater. Wearing it last night, I kept sniffing my wrist and thinking it was far too pretty to be a masculine fragrance. My tastes run more toward unisex and lighter masculine scents, though, so that isn’t necessarily a strike against Vetiver.

Before I could fall in love with this fragrance, though, the drydown brought out a nagging, bitter note that first left me with an unsettled feeling, then a touch of nausea. At first, I wondered if it was the vetiver note, itself, that was bothering me. I haven’t tried enough perfumes containing vetiver to know whether or not I like the smell of it, though it’s listed as a base note in Terre d’Hermes, which I love. Besides, whatever was bothering me smelled familiar, like something I’d encountered a lot outside the world of perfumery. A quick look at the fragrance notes list on Basenotes, coupled with some sniffs at my wrist for confirmation, helped me to finger the culprit: tobacco.

Tobacco is a common note in many masculine fragrances, and one I didn’t really expect to dislike. I used to smoke, though I never became addicted, and I still appreciate the smell of a good pipe blend. But that strong, unmistakable tobacco twang at the bottom of Vetiver just bothered the hell out of me. I didn’t end up scrubbing this one, at least. Vetiver is so light, overall, that I was able to ignore it until it faded away on its own.

Too bad. We’d gotten off to such a promising start. Sampling Guerlain’s Vetiver was a lot like having a wonderful conversation with a charming, interesting, articulate new friend, only to discover later that he voted for George W. Bush. The flaw isn’t enough to make you dislike him, exactly, but you’re forced to acknowledge, with a tinge of regret, that the two of you will never quite see eye to eye.

Image note: Tobacco. Pretty, no?

Eau d'Orange Verte, My New "Everyday Scent"

If Terre d’Hermes was love at first sniff, then Eau d’Orange Verte, the next Hermes sample I tried, was love at third or fourth sniff. This juice smells wonderful in the vial, but for its first few seconds on my skin it always bears a disconcerting resemblance to Lemon Pledge®. Happily, that impression passes quickly enough, as the bright, welcoming citrus notes at the top of this scent fill out and envelop me more completely.

After a short while, patchouli comes to the forefront, but avoids straying into dirty hippie territory. Instead, the patchouli is restrained by the crisp tangy citrus, mint, and cedar smells. The overall effect is as affable as it is elegant. Eau d’Orange Verte is uncluttered and self-possessed, with an inviting warmth of character and a sense of wit that never stoops to pretension.

I absolutely adore Eau d’Orange Verte. Where Terre d’Hermes is comfortable and rugged and woodsy, with a depth that feels almost meditative, Eau d’Orange Verte is pure sensual delight. It's the feel of sunlight on your skin on a breezy spring day.

My partner really likes Eau d’Orange Verte, too, both on me and for herself. Shortly after trying it for the first time, I managed to track down an inexpensive splash bottle on eBay. With a little looking, this fragrance can be found at dirt-cheap prices. Because of its affordability and casual, feel-good personality, this has become my "everyday scent." It's the thing I splash on when I don't feel like thinking about it. Though it's generally thought of as a "summer fragrance," I find it adds a little cheer to the sometimes oppressive drear of a Maine winter day.

Most of the complaints I’ve read about Eau d’Orange Verte go something like this: “It smells amazing, but fades too quickly, leaving me heartbroken.” I know this is a common complaint about eau de colognes in general, though I haven’t personally noticed this problem with Eau d’Orange Verte. I apply it before work in the morning and can usually still smell it long past lunchtime. This is also a scent that works well on fabric. I like to let a few drops soak into the collar of my shirt, which not only allows the fragrance to hang on all day, but also brings out the cedar notes more strongly. I haven’t yet tried Concentré d’Orange Verte, which is supposed to be a decent approximation of the original, but with better staying power.

UPDATE: I'm wearing Concentré d'Orange Verte right now and, while it does smell very nice, it's nothing like the original. The concentre is more of a green, linear scent that, even for its similarities to Eau d'Orange Verte, doesn't capture the latter's swirling, sparkling brightness. Yes, it does last longer, but the tradeoff isn't worth it, for me. Eau d'Orange Verte is inexpensive enough that it's no problem to buy a large bottle of the stuff and reapply liberally throughout the day. That said, if I don't compare Concentré to the cologne, it stands on its own as a very good fragrance. It's another triumph for Mr. Ellena, but Hermes should have named it something else. These are two very distinct fragrances.

Image note: Like the name of the cologne, this image is orange and green. I chose the tie dye as a tongue in cheek reference to the strong patchouli at the heart, though, as I said above, Eau d’Orange Verte doesn’t smell like a head shop.

Terre d'Hermes - So Good it Turns Me Stupid

What’s this, a third Smells Like Boi post in two days? Madness! Don’t get used to this frenetic pace. It’s just that, after all of those bitchy, negative reviews, I was itching to write about something I actually like. The next several posts will all be about various Hermes scents. I got samples of nine different unisex and masculine fragrances from Hermes, and have been trying each of them over a period of several weeks. As most of them smell very nice – even the ones that aren’t really my style – you can expect the atmosphere around here to be quite “posi” for the next few weeks.

The first sample I tried was Terre d’Hermes, and it smells fantastic! I think it may have been love at first sniff. My initial scent impression was a really rich, deep pine, that was not at all artificial like Pine Sol or a car air freshener. I could actually picture the needles and the bark. It smelled jut like the Pacific Northwest, and brought back a vivid sense memory of the time I visited Mt. Rainier with a couple of old friends who were living in Seattle.

“Earth” is an incredibly apt description; Terre d’Hermes smells like nature in all the best ways. I can even smell dirt and rocks and rain and fresh air, and maybe even a little bit of a far off wood fire. It makes me wonder how the hell Jean-Claude Ellena managed to bottle the smell of camping. Then it makes me wonder if Luca Turin could possibly have been smelling the same thing I was when he declared there was “no terre in sight” in his review for The Guide.

After a little while, the pine seems to fade, and I can smell other parts of the forest - ferns and moss and grass, deciduous trees and even a few spring flowers poking up through a carpet of fallen leaves in search of the sun. Before I can miss the pine, though, I find it’s still there, if I focus on it.

Terre d’Hermes is exactly what I was hoping it would be, and more: earthy, wholesome, and unpretentious. It’s a scent I would recommend to people who claim not to like perfume. It’s very rugged, but not at all hyper-masculine.

On a subsequent wearing, I noted all of the things I smelled before, but I also realized it smells strikingly similar to the Nippon Kodo Viva Pine incense I use during my daily zazen (Buddhist meditation) practice. I think its meditative association is a large part of the draw for me. I love incense-y smells.

I’m wearing Terre d’Hermes again today, and for the first time, I can smell the citrus notes people keep mentioning in their reviews. It’s been described as everything from grapefruit to navel orange peels. Whatever it is, it’s pleasant, as citrus notes generally are for me.

As much as I love this fragrance, I couldn’t wear it every day. Beyond the fact that it’s quite expensive – which is why I haven’t snatched up a bottle yet – it makes me stupid. Really! I’ve been wandering around in a haze of contentment all morning. I don’t think I could handle feeling this good all the time.

Image note: Isn’t this photo gorgeous? This is one of those popular nature photos that get put up on those “free wallpaper” sites. I think it was taken in Japan, but I’m not sure. Anyway, this is where wearing Terre d’Hermes takes me.

Eau d'Ashtray?

Attention fragrance fanatics ... how would you like to smell like an ashtray? No? How about fireworks on the Fourth of July, cold hard cash, magazine pages, or boiled crawfish? Now you can, for free!

I was trolling the ol' Intertubes, looking for some free samples, when I stumbled upon WeirdFragrances.com. For a limited time, you can get a free sample of one of ten off-the-wall unisex "perfumes," such as The Love of Money, Cajun Delight, Fourth of July, Burning Rubber, and yes, Ash Tray

Just go to their site, choose a scent, and fill in your address. Not all of them sound repulsive. In addition to those already listed, there are others - like Spiced Pumpkin, Fresh Bread, and Hot Cookies - that appear to be more conventional.

I opted for Grease Monkey. The copy reads, "Smell like a mechanic without getting your hands dirty (or getting paid $50/hr). Oil, spray lubricant, a little sweat, and pheromones kick this scent into high gear."

Who could resist that?

Bvlgari Blv is a Schizophrenic Stinkbomb!

I realize I’m still a newb at this fragrance reviewing business, so my horizons are still a bit narrow, but Bvlgari Blv Pour Homme may well be the absolute worst thing I’ve ever smelled in my entire life. It’s worse than skunk, worse than burnt rubber, worse than shit … To be fair, it may rank just below a cocktail of all of those things in terms of repulsiveness.

Bvlgari Blv is just a complete trainwreck of a scent that is at turns loud and spicy, like an obnoxious open-shirted 70s guy, then soft and powdery, like a little old lady in a pink frilly dress. This scent is trying very hard to be something ... The trouble is, it can’t seem to decide what it's trying to be.

For reasons I can't quite put my finger on, this stuff leaves a picture in my head of two men having sex in the bathroom of a very loud, grossly trendy nightclub … And they’re not attractive men, either; they’re greasy, over-tanned men dressed like extras on Miami Vice.

Image note: Wearing Bvlgari Blv made me wish I owned a gasmask. I’m not sure what the origin of this picture is. I found it on someone’s Myspace page. It reminds me of the old Sandman comic - not Neil Gaiman’s Dream King, Morpheus, but Wesley Dodds, the gasmask-and-fedora-wearing hero from the Golden Age of comics. He used to put villains to sleep using a special gun filled with knock-out gas (thus the gasmask).

This Angel Won't Fly ...

Dear Perfume Industry:
Do me a solid and please quit ruining perfectly good scents by drying them out with icky-sicky baby powder stank. While I'm sure there are people in the world who enjoy smelling like baby ass, wouldn' it be kinder to allow these people to skip the middle man and just douse themselves in powder? It would certainly be cheaper ...

Case in point, A*Men, Thierry Mugler's masculine reimagining of Angel. I decided to try a sample of A*Men after reading many reviews that compared it - either favorably or unfavorably, depending on the reviewer - to HM for Men, a scent I raved about just the other day.

And, yes, there is a more than subtle resemblance between A*Men and HM. As promised, A*Men does share the rich, chocolately base I enjoyed so much in the HM. Unfortunately, while HM has many other interesting and complimentary notes to balance out the chocolate, the noses at Thierry Mugler saw fit to dump a bottle of baby powder into this sweet treat. The result, while not terrible, left me feeling flat.

If HM and A*Men are the olfactory siblings everyone claims, then they're no more than fraternal twins, at best. Neither scent is particularly dangerous or challenging, but in this family, the HM is the witty, flirtatious twin, while A*Men is the affably ho-hum one. Though likeable enough, this scent is the type that might sit at home on a Friday night reading Chicken Soup for the Soul or a Nicholas Sparks novel.

Image note: Nah ... I think you can get this one on your own.

HM for Men - Refined, Playful, Complex, Yummy!

Hanae Mori’s HM for Men is an understated fragrance that is just generally pleasant. It’s chocolately without being overly-sweet, and flowery without being too feminine. This is the smell of refinement, but with a touch of playfulness. If HM for Men were a person, it would be a good-looking older gay man in an expensive – but not flashy – suit, who collects Asian antiques.

At first sniff, I thought that – just as the Azzaro Pour Homme was a touch too macho for me – HM for Men was a little too dainty. My partner, M, certainly thought so, too. She had trouble believing, at first, that it was meant to be a men's fragrance, though she came around later.

The first time I tried it, the HM didn’t smell terribly sweet to me, and I was amazed that so many reviews I’d read went on and on about its chocolate notes. There was definitely chocolate, but it mingled with the floral notes in a nice way that seemed satisfyingly sophisticated. The second time, though, the chocolate dominated for a good 20 minutes, to the point that it smelled exactly like I would imagine a chocolate factory smells. It was almost overpowering, and certainly, I thought, too sweet for me … but I couldn’t make myself stop sniffing it. It was so yummy! Not at all like a bad chocolate scented candle or a Bath & Body Works scent. Rather, it was rich and alluring, like an expensive bar of dark chocolate. Then, about a half an hour in, the chocolate faded a notch to allow those floral notes I remembered to come through. It was still sweet, but in a way that was so layered it smelled almost musky. As there is no musk in it, I think it must be the lavender and/or moss I smell.

I disagree with M’s initial opinion that it’s too feminine. HM for Men is definitely masculine, but in a light, unobtrusive way. After the first few days of wearing the sample, I got my hands on some more, and have been wearing it every so often, in a rotation with a couple of others I enjoy. Interestingly, the strong chocolate tones of my second encounter with it have never returned in full force. Instead, subsequent wearings have brought out some warm, bright, sparkling notes that tickle my nose like champagne. No matter how often I wear it, I never quite get to the bottom of this fragrance. It’s deceptively complex. There’s so much going on in it, yet it never comes across as noisy or muddy. I suspect this may be a favorite for years to come.

I haven't tried HM for Men in the EDP concentration, but I hear it's a completely different sense experience than the EDT. I look forward to trying it.

UPDATE: I have now tried the eau de parfum concentration. Interestingly, I suspect my first encounter with HM may have actually been the EDP, not the eau de toilette, as I'd originally thought. I have two spray samples of the EDT that I've been using for several weeks, and I've been enjoying this fragrance less and less over time. What once smelled smooth and artistic and complex began to strike me as harsh and discordant. The EDP, on the other hand, is wonderful. It smells just as I remembered my first experience with this fragrance. I would advise anyone who wants to try HM to stick with the EDP and avoid the EDT.

Image note: HM for Men makes me think of the cherry blossoms of Tokyo, and not just because Hanae Mori is a Japanese designer. Like the cherry blossoms, this fragrance is both earthy and elegant, bright and restrained. Its balance also reminds me of the way the light, airy pink petals at the top of this photo offset the dark, deep brown trunks at the bottom.

My Apologies to Azzaro

Hello, dear readers (all four of you).

I know I warned you all at the outset that I was likely to lose interest in this blog, but I don't suppose any of you thought I meant after only a few posts. Well, I haven't! I've had a monster cold for the last few weeks, which left any sniffing-type activiy more or less out of the question. I'm feeling a bit better now, and will soon be able to commence with the smellage.

I don't have a new review today, but I have a few lined up for the coming weeks. I just wanted to check in and say "hello." Also, a little housekeeping ... In my last post, I compared Azzaro Pour Homme to Old Spice and, while noting that the former was more subtle and pleasing than the latter, suggested that one might as well just save some money and buy the Old Spice.

Since then, I've had occasion to sample some Old Spice, which I haven't actually smelled in many years (since my dad stopped wearing it when I was in high school). And when I say "sample," I mean I covertly splashed some on at the local Rite Aid a few weeks ago. Shhh. Anyway, while the Old Spice was pleasant enough at first, it quickly turned bitter, excessively soapy (like Lava soapy), dank, and way too loud for my liking. After about an hour, I scrubbed it off.

So, I'm forced to rescind my previous pronouncement and admit that Azzaro Pour Homme is, by far, the nicer fragrance. It does project a similar character to Old Spice, but does so with much more restraint and charm.

Huh, now that that I think of it, I guess that was a new review, after all.

Image note: A schooner, like the one that Old Spice has used on its bottles for decades. I love schooners. Here in Maine, there are companies that will take you out for a schooner cruise along the coast, for an afternoon, overnight, or even a week. I never saw myself as a "cruise person," but my mouth has been watering at the prospect of taking one of these trips for the last several years.

Azzaro Pour Homme = Bottled Machismo (In the Best Possible Way)

Azzaro Pour Homme isn’t bad … Not bad at all! My first sniff reminded me of my dad's Old Spice, but it mellowed on my skin to something less over-the-top testosterone-y. It was still spicy and clean smelling, and the Old Spice resemblance never completely faded, but there are much worse things than smelling like Old Spice.

In addition to the spiciness, there's a definite sweetness there, too. Vanilla? I think so. I’m noticing that my skin (or nose?) seems to pull out the sweetest notes in almost anything I wear. Scents that guys review as “animalic” or “woodsy” smell almost gourmand on me. That’s an interesting trend for me to note.

I enjoy this well enough, but I don't think I would buy a bottle. It's not something I would wear on a regular basis. It would be too rugged for me to pull off, I think, unless I were in deep drag ... blue collar drag, not the awkwardly, scruffily, dandified boi I like to pull out on occasion. If I did ever want to smell like this – and the possibility isn’t out of the question – I might just save myself a few dimes and opt for the Old Spice, instead.

Image note: I think the kind of guy who would wear Azzaro Pour Homme is the same kind of guy who might have a poster of this pin-up girl hanging on his wall. Heck, who could blame him …

UPDATE: I've since revised my opinion that one would be just as well off buying Old Spice. See my follow-up post.

Grey Flannel? More Like a Grey Flannel Dishcloth!

The first new scent I tried, on Julie’s recommendation, was Geoffery Beene’s Grey Flannel, and I HATED it.

I realize I’m trampling all over a sacred institution here. Grey Flannel is a classic … and supposedly one by which all other masculine fragrances should be judged. Luca Turin loves the stuff, giving it five stars in The Guide, and calling it “a masterpiece.”

Me? All I could smell when I first put it on was dishwashing liquid. Even a half an hour later, the smell of Dawn® pervaded, though now I could smell violets, too. Violet scented Dawn® … this is the great olfactory masterpiece of the last 40 years? Not in my book. I had to scrub this one off. Yech!

Image note: This dishwashing liquid isn't violet scented. The label says it's "original scent." I think it's been dyed pink for Breast Cancer Awareness (don't even get me started on the crassness of "pinkwashing"). To me, though, it looks more purple than pink ... like it could be violet scented.

A Memory of Sunflowers

I mentioned in my first post that I began trying new fragrances in the hope of replacing an old scent I no longer enjoy. I’ll name that fragrance – and review it – later. First, I want to go back a little further, to the first bottle of perfume I ever owned. It was Elizabeth Arden’s Sunflowers, and I’d asked my parents to buy it for me for Christmas when I was 18. Why, you may wonder, would a self-described “boi” have ever requested such an insipid, girly fragrance? The answer is really quite simple: to fit in.

I’ve always been the sort of person who likes to congratulate myself on my own nonconformity, but the truth is, it’s a total ruse. The need for belonging is wedged firmly in the middle of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and, no matter how much I’d like to protest, I’m no exception. Starting on the day I painted the paper towel tube biplane I made in art class pink and baby blue – just like all of the popular girls in my class – instead of a more visually appealing red or dark blue, my life has been a study in decisions made out of a desperate desire to fit in. The only difference is, I’ve never been terribly good at fitting in. I don’t wear men’s clothes just because they’re more comfortable or make me feel sexier (though they are and they do); I wear men’s clothes because, even though I’m curvy and have reasonably soft facial features, women’s clothes make me look like a bad drag queen. This was true even when my hair was long and curly and honey-colored. Put me in a dress, and I still blunder about like a confused bear cub.

Anyway, back to the Sunflowers … I asked for a bottle because it was the unofficial scent of a clique of girls I joined during my freshman year of college. Thinking back on those girls, I realize Sunflowers was the perfect fragrance for them. Like it, most of them were artificial, sickeningly sweet, and vaguely unpleasant for reasons you can’t quite put your finger on. In fact, when I wrote the word “clique” just now, the first word that actually came to mind was “cult.” For one thing, everyone in the group had a different Winnie the Pooh nickname. I was “Owl,” the bookish, somewhat pedantic one.

They were my first real group of friends. I had friends in high school, but I’ve always been more of a one-on-one kind of person. As you can probably tell from my description above, I don’t have very fond memories of this particular group of friends. It’s not that anything memorably bad ever happened between us. They just grated on my nerves most of the time. I think, perhaps, the only reason I ever hung around with them in the first place was because I had a crush on the girl we’d nicknamed “Tigger.” I wouldn’t have put it that way at the time, of course … I was still trying to be straight at that point in my life.

It’s no coincidence that I decided to enroll in a foreign exchange program in Manchester, England, at about the same time that group was becoming more tightly knit. I knew leaving meant I would grow apart from the group, even as the rest of them grew closer together. And I actually remember feeling somewhat conflicted about it, too. But when I packed my bags for the UK, I left that half-used bottle of Sunflowers behind in my closet at home. I don’t think I ever wore the stuff again.

Image note: These are real sunflowers, which, unlike the bottled version, I quite like. I haven't smelled Arden's Sunflowers in more than a decade, but my memory of it smells a lot like real sunflowers, which actually don't smell very good.

Welcome!

Before I dive in and actually begin reviewing scents, I’d like to extend a warm welcome to the tiny handful of people I expect to visit this blog. For those of you who don’t already know me, here’s a brief introduction:

I am a 30-something professional copywriter, editor, and journalist. I live in the small, cold, gritty city of Lewiston, Maine, with my partner of eight years – my “wife,” though we aren’t legally married – and four ill-behaved pets (two cats, two dogs).

As the subhead to this blog notes, I am “genderqueer” … that’s just a trendy new way of saying I’m a biological female who doesn’t feel any real affinity for traditionally “feminine” things. At least, that’s my definition. Ask anyone else who self-identifies as genderqueer, and you’re likely to get a different response. Any discussion of gender identity or roles raises a number of complicated issues, and I don’t really plan to analyze those issues here. Suffice to say, in my case, my gender identity means that, among other things, I dress like a man, walk like a man, sit like a man and, when it comes to choosing fragrances, prefer to smell like a man.

Of course, I realize “smelling like a man” is about as subjective as “smelling good.” Still, I suspect fragrance reviews written by a biological female with a strong preference for traditionally “masculine” scents may be just different enough of a take to be intriguing to some readers. Or so I hope …

I started this blog to serve as a living document of my search for a new fragrance to replace the same tired old bottle of cologne I’ve been dragging around for years (more on this later). I stopped liking the smell of it some time ago, and the bottle has gone practically untouched since we moved to our new house, so I decided it was time for a change. I don’t really know anything about fragrance but, as the saying goes, “I know what I like.” The only trouble is, how do you find what you like when you don’t know where to begin? So, several weeks ago, I asked my perfume-loving friend Julie for some advice. She made a few recommendations, I did a little research and ordered a few samples. Those samples led to more research and more samples until, before I knew it, sniffing had become a minor obsession.

Since then, I’ve been emailing  some tentative reviews to Julie, who thought it a shame they were wasted on her eyes only … so here I am.

Finally, though I’m a professional writer – or maybe because I am – I no longer particularly enjoy “writing for fun.” I’ve started other blogs in the past, but invariably lost interest after a handful of posts. As such, I expect this blog to be sporadic and short-lived. To be frank, I’m a consummate dabbler, and don’t even know how much longer my interest in fragrance will last. For that reason, I’ll apologize now to anyone who enjoys reading what I have to say here. You’ve been warned!

Image note: Neckties and dogs are two traditionally "masculine" things I love. This photo is a bit silly, but I couldn't resist ... Besides, dogs have an acute sense of smell, so this little guy seems like a fitting mascot for my first entry.