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Walk of shame
...or else how I developed the feeling that I'd fallen into the clutches of a grandson scam artist.
Disclaimer: I am an older gentleman of advanced retirement age who has applied fragrances all his life for personal pleasure. I do not have an analytical nose and professional background knowledge, nor the urge to remain as objective as possible in reviews, as far as this seems at all possible with fragrances.
The person does not become unemployed as a pensioner. Rather, he must in addition to all actions to be performed just those before also still independently search, find and invent if necessary, without thereby for God's sake not to torpedo the strictly structured and planned routines of the younger and neater busier generations.
And because Pandemie and Lockdown react completely unsympathetic to the hourglass of my life, I have now just for the first time THE Crowdpleaser par excellence, namely the infamous Dior Sauvage Edt. acquired as a blind buy, in order to get to the bottom of the secret of its global success quite personally, whereby the depth of this lake - as should crystallize quickly - in all its simplicity would rather be counted to the non-swimmer area.
The actual foundation of the fragrance here is a very round, creamy and pleasing sweetness, which we were allowed to get to know in a similar form already with other hyped fragrances,
eg with Jean Paul Gaultier's Le Mâle or JS Sun Men .
François Demachy and his team hide but this sweet bouquet refined thorny-like in the midst of a rude hedge of tart-bitter woods and a very subtle patchouli modrigkeit (almost in the way a bartender would sink a shot of Noilly Prat Vermouth in the sweet Strawberry cocktail), which should give the fragrance not only a greater sophistication, but also make it ready for the fragrance market of the post-nineties.
That Sauvage is a wholly pleasing fragrance is not at all in the slightest doubt, and I can certainly understand why legions of young ladies obsessively rub the perfumed crumpled (and accidentally forgotten) shirts of their current sweethearts over their own faces.
My own enthusiasm, however, is a little more muted. During the evening walk, I feel caught in the paranoid thought that a random stranger coming towards me because of this already a little greasy chavvy synthetic core sweetness could tacitly accuse me of a pathological form of opportunism, which would be due not only to the notoriety of this Eau de toilettes, but also the little subtle construction.
I feel in this regard again and again small waves of shame rising in me, must nevertheless confess at this point that I would still sniff my wrist many times this evening, and feel like the victim of a grandchild trick. I know the method, understand the procedure, imagine that such a thing would never happen to me, and yet fall into the trap ......
.....although a sweet one, in which one's own grandchildren pull away an empty wallet by a rip cord as soon as one bends over for it as a grandfather.
A recommendation to pronounce is superfluous at this point, since an encounter with this fragrance for each Parfumaficionado must inevitably seem as inevitable as their own death.
And therefore I spare myself to describe the aesthetics of the flacon as only mediocre, because other and cheaper designer fragrances in this area perform far more, such a consideration would have to seem as meaningful as the aesthetic evaluation of their own grave urn.
In this sense