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12/31/2020
FioreMarina
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FioreMarina
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Pricesse Tam Tam
So - that I may still experience this, I would not have believed. I am actually overwhelmed.
But I have to get out, so that you understand why.
The thing is, I used to have a clear career goal - I mean, I used to have a clear career goal. I would become a princess. The job description (being fabulously beautiful / being threatened with death by begrudging relatives / playing with golden balls / being bedded on roses (and by no means on peas!)) was familiar to me in its basic outlines, and the way to get there was perfectly clear: marry a prince. What else?
So far it was all clear and in a sense almost in dry pink fluffy cloths (with glitter braid), only I did not reckon with my mother, this feminist buzzkill with her barbaric 68er ideology.
She held me namely, asked for possible princes for advice, the likeness of the then still just so youthful Prince Charles under the nose. Tenor of the educational measure: "From such a one you want to be kissed awake? Seriously, girl - better get up yourself."
What can I tell you? It was outrageously cruel, of course, but it served its purpose. Anyway, the prince option was off the table until further notice.
Not so the career goal. There had to be, there just had to be another path, any path. I didn't find one and became something else, because you can't wait forever for your girlhood dreams to come true, and the years went by and I became a lot of things, just not a princess.
And now, having all but given up hope, I suddenly know how. Hence, my overwhelming.
How to do it, become a princess?
You have to squeeze a sprinkler head.
And in an instant, you find yourself in a fairy tale, in a rushing ball night. It opens with a tart, unripe, almost bitter orange note, and I swear Thierry Wasser worked the hard, aromatic leaves of the orange right in: a dark, velvety green, seconds before bergamot floats through the room like the ghost of or, heck, why not, the fairy Shalimar, sparkling a little Thousand and One Nights out of the scent. Fifteen minutes later, we have every reason to let the fanfares sound, the choirs sing and fireworks go off, as the curtain rises and a fabulously beautiful, utterly perfect iris appears. Nothing about her is cool, nothing is synthetic. She fills the room with her radiance, bows her crowned head and lets a smile of courage sparkle under lowered lids. She wears a gossamer veil of patchouli and soft roses bloom on her cheeks, all just a suggestion, they are only there to enhance her beauty. This iris is the queen of the ball night from the first moment of her appearance and she remains so until dawn, not growing paler, only softer, and sweeter, when, after a few hours, delicious caramel gradually evolves from the fragrance, a cotton-soft subtly perceptible musk note and, again, the fairy Shalimar, this time in her utterly unique, unmistakable vanilla note.
What can I say? This fragrance is so glamorous, so beautiful and perfect that its wearer can't help but glow from the inside out. It needs an occasion. Not necessarily a prom night, but a day that you want to put a shine on. I also wear it sometimes when I'm just walking the dogs through the woods. Then I don't trudge - I stride through the snow. I bow my head lovingly to my naughty pooches, and for a moment I rise above the noise of the world. And thank my mother, the old feminist buzzkill, for putting princes out of my mind back in the day. Being a princess is just fine without them.
On that note, I wish you a glorious end to the year today. A happy and healthy new year with as many fairy tales as will fit.
And thanks for reading.
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