Everything used to be quite different.
Women wore dresses and men wore trousers, the lady of the world tightened her corset to catch her breath and kept her spirits up with smelling salts, while the receding hairline of her husband was compensated by voluminous sideburns.
Men used to venture out into the wide world and, lacking a modern GPS, got lost on their way to India, ending up on American shores, while their wives oscillated between kitchen and church, ensuring that their children turned out well.
Courtly ladies bathed in rose water and donkey milk - and were glad if their men at least let water touch their skin and didn’t just smell of themselves.
Even Hemingway showed some understanding here and distanced himself from the customs of the time of the Sun King.
For a long time, this worked well; the biological and ecological tasks were clearly divided, the boundary between androgens and estrogens was straight and unmovable - until one day, women had had enough, stuffed corsets and aprons into the trash, and set out to make careers with ties and short haircuts.
The earth shook beneath the feet of men, their worldview wavered and collapsed, burying one or another image of masculinity along with it, leaving behind a space in the resulting void for something new, for the unknown and unheard of - and for a freedom that men could not have dreamed of just a few decades ago.
Suddenly, it was perfectly fine to show feelings and reveal one’s softer sides, to let go of the reins every now and then and not just let the woman take the wheel on Sundays.
Men were allowed to pay attention to their appearance without being suspiciously eyed, and while women confidently conquered previously male territory, the bravest among them eventually ventured into men’s cosmetics and fragrances.
It should be herbal and fresh, striking and masculine, spicy and herbal - it should definitely smell like a man, not at all like any flowers, as that was feminine territory, and somewhere the boundary between the sexes had to be drawn, a boundary that had been lost sight of and without which, in the opinion of some, it just wouldn’t work.
Thus, Mr. Grönemeyer asked in the late 20th century, somewhat desperately, when a man is a man, earnestly seeking an answer yet seeming just as wise as before.
Until in 2005, a fragrance appeared on the shelves of men’s departments in popular perfumeries, proudly bearing the label "Homme" and casually coming with iris, cocoa, and amber, warm and soft and powdery, as one had previously only sniffed on a woman.
Dior’s new man divided opinions with powdered lipstick accords and associations with old armchairs made of cracked leather, dusty books, and crackling fireplace fires.
Women loved it and paid their partners for the precious drops, while men were torn and couldn’t decide whether Olivier Polge deserved a monument or eternal purgatory.
"Dior Homme" didn’t care - powerful yet sensitive, warming and supportive, it strode confidently until its reformulation, self-assured and expansive in its statement, and thus "too much" for some men.
A little more discretion, toned-down volume, and dimmed light would have been desired - then, yes, then it would have been perfect...
Sometimes wishing helps.
Sometimes it is not God who hears the prayers, but a woman.
Five years after the release of "Dior Homme," a spicy-fresh hint of aniseed iris wafted from the house of Carthusia, bright and green and with a slightly rough, serious, almost strict silvery powderiness.
Whoever embraced it found their back straightened, their head lifted, and their gaze cleared, until they looked determinedly at the world, willful yet far from anything aggressive.
Soon, the fragrance merged with the skin of its wearer into a shimmering, soft, gently powdery fluid, in whose shadow warm woods and a hint of aromatic incense were discernible.
The scent remained very close to its person, surrounding them gently like an aura, communicating only with those who came near, who were allowed to touch and move them, who felt their strength and vulnerability, their pride and humility, their longing and dreams.
And their roots.
The man of the year 2013 wears a beard again.
And "Carthusia 1681".
Top Notes 
Bergamot
Coriander
Red thyme
Rosemary
Mandarin orange
Heart Notes 
Iris
Lavender
Black pepper
Neroli
Petitgrain
Base Notes 
Frankincense
Ambergris
Sandalwood
White musk
Cedarwood
Vanilla
60hz
EvgeniiR
Topfpflanze3
Eggi37
Floyd
Licorice
Susan
Gold
Kovex
SonarID
